The Devil's Grip
by charlock221
Summary: Sequel to 'A Christmas Miracle'. Holmes, Watson and Clarky must fight to find out who is pulling the strings, though it isn't too easy, seeing as deadly assassins are watching their every move and plotting their demise. Plenty of whump in all areas, and rated T for violence. No slash ;
1. Chapter 1

**I'm back! This is the sequel to my previous fanfic **_**A Christmas Miracle**_**, and it takes place a few days after it. Note that I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movie or the books. I am merely an admirer, and I hope those of you who have read **_**ACM **_**find this story just as exciting, as well as you newcomers, though I should warn the newbies that there will be a lot of references to the events in **_**ACM**_**. Well, without further ado...**

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The letter was thrust into his hands as he made his way through the dark streets of London. He paused and spun around to try and catch a glimpse of his mysterious delivery man, but he had disappeared into the shadows. Who delivers a letter at eleven o'clock at night? It was alright for him, he'd only just left work, after ploughing through the piles of paperwork, but a delivery man? He frowned and turned the letter over in his hands. There was a blood-red wax seal on the back, and he peered at the design on it. There was no image, only three letters, but it was too dark to make out what they were. The parchment was rough on his fingers as he pried open the package and squinted to read its contents. Slowly, his face paled as his eyes moved lower and lower down the text.

_Constable Clarke,_

_ Though I have not met you personally, I can assure you I have been studying your methods from afar, and I must say, I am impressed. Not many officers could have the nerve to shoot a man dead from afar. Do not misunderstand me, I am not angry with you for disposing of my man, though I am afraid you have been caught up in something far too great for your worth, and therefore, it is with some regret that I am writing to inform you to expect a little... gift from me within the upcoming weeks. I beg you will not take this personally, for I am a great admirer of the police force, though I must stress that you say your goodbyes... soon._

_ Yours,_

_ C.E.S_

Constable Clarke gripped the letter in shaking hands. Unsure of what to do, he considered turning and returning back to Scotland Yard and telling Lestrade, but he didn't want to waste the Inspector's time if this was just a hoax. But what if it wasn't? And who the devil is _C.E.S_? He racked his brains for any previous criminals that may have bore a grudge against him, but then he remembered the discussion he had had with a certain consulting detective that night at the church, at the possibility that maybe there was a higher power that had been influencing Samuel Davis' actions. Then it struck him. He knew exactly who he could go to. He glanced along the street and hailed a cab, shouting the address up to the driver and promising a double fare if he got there in ten minutes. Clarky didn't notice the man that walked past him and slip something in his pocket as he climbed in to the waiting vehicle. Nor did he feel the slight prick on his arm as something pierced his skin. Instead, he sat back in his seat and closed his eyes, trying to fight the oncoming headache and nauseating feeling in his stomach.

* * *

"You call yourself a doctor? I believed in you, and yet you idly sat by and let me die! How could you? I am having a hard time believing _you _were in the army."

He stared as the young doctor screamed insults at him, shouting about how much he had planned to do, where he was going to go, what he was going to see.

"Patrick," he whispered weakly. "Please. I didn't–" he was interrupted as Collins interrupted him, shouting again.

"Don't you _Patrick _me! Do you know how much I trusted you? I had just been shot, for crying out loud! I was young, learning and trusted every damn person I met. But _you_. You betrayed that trust. You as good as killed me." his shouting had turned to a sinister whisper, and he stepped back from the raging doctor.

"I hate you." Collins whispered. "I _hate _you. I HATE YOU!" Suddenly an explosion muted Collins' screams, as the scene twisted and warped in front of his eyes, and soon the two of them were standing in the desert, screams and cries echoing around them. Bodies lay strewn in the sand, and he watched as Collins took a step towards him, blood suddenly enveloping his chest. Collins raised a hand towards him before his eyes widened and he crumpled to the ground.

"No!" John Watson sat up in his chair, drenched in sweat and panting in the darkness. He closed his eyes in relief as he tried to calm his breathing, and prayed he hadn't woken anyone. He'd had the same nightmare for the past four nights, and they'd gradually become so horrific, he'd been attempting to stop himself from sleeping, hence the reason he had fallen asleep at his desk. The nightmare had re-awoken his fears that the boy's blood was on his hands, and though he knew it wasn't true, he couldn't help but feel guilty.

Slowly, he rose himself from his chair, and tucked it back under the desk. He couldn't stay in his room, not with the temptation of sleep nagging at him. He tip-toed over to the door, and

quietly crept down the stairs, trying to prevent the stairs from creaking. He entered the living room of 221B Baker Street, and softly made his way to the fireplace. The December chill was still around, and though he'd recovered from his cold, the air was not helping his wound rest. Soon the fire was roaring into life, and warmth blossomed through the room. Watson sighed and flopped down on the couch. He was _so_ tired. The doctor inside him was criticising his childish attempts to stop his dreams, but he ignored the pestering. As he fought the irritating voice inside him, he noticed his eyes were drooping. Instantly, he jerked his eyes open and rubbed at them furiously, trying to remove any traces of sleep. Four consecutive nights of barely any sleep wasn't helping to keep his eyes open, and he sought to find something to distract him. His gaze fell upon his friend's Christmas present that he'd bought him. He reached over and picked up _A Journey through the Solar System_. He opened the first page and began to read the introduction. It had not been two minutes before his eyelids were gradually closing. Again, he forced his eyes open, and unceremoniously threw the book across the room in frustration.

"Seems a little unnecessary." a voice said from across the room.

Watson jumped and snapped his head around to see a yawning Sherlock Holmes exiting his own bedroom, tying the cord around his gown.

"Sorry," Watson muttered, still looking at Holmes. "Were you asleep?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I was merely resting my eyes."

"Right. Did I wake you?"

Holmes shook his head. "No, my dear fellow, I was already awake." Holmes may have been the amazing, ever-observant detective, but Watson knew his friend well enough to know when he was lying.

"Sorry." he said again.

"Having trouble sleeping, Watson?" Holmes asked as he walked out of Watson's line of vision and picked up his violin.

"It's nothing," Watson replied, still trying to fight his exhaustion. "Just a bad dream."

"Hmm," Holmes doubted it was 'just a bad dream'. He knew something had been troubling his friend, and he had an idea as to what it was. He positioned his instrument against his chin and shoulder, and readied his bow. "Well, how about I play you something to help calm you down?" Without waiting for a reply, he stroked his bow over the strings, and a soft melody escaped the violin.

Watson turned his body into the couch, looking for a comfortable spot whilst his eyes drooped again. "You'll wake the neighbours..." he muttered as his eyes finally closed.

Holmes continued to play for another five minutes before finishing the song and setting down the object. He pulled an afghan from behind the couch and gently draped it over his friend. He noticed the dark circles under Watson's eyes, and the slightly paler colour of his skin, and he sighed as he settled in his chair, pipe in hand. The pair of them had been continually stressed throughout the week, anticipating what 'gift' this _C.E.S _had in store for them. Nothing had come, however, and this evening Watson had forced Holmes to take an early night. At first he had refused, but the look in Watson's eyes soon saw him tucked under the warm blankets and snoring softly. He was aware that Watson had been trying not to sleep, but he could think of nothing that could help his friend. He knew the death of the young doctor had affected Watson greatly, and he suspected this was what Watson dreamt about.

It had been twenty minutes, and Holmes was beginning to feel drowsy also. He was contemplating going back to his room to sleep when a loud pounding thundered around the apartment. Noticing Watson stirring, Holmes cursed as he hurried down the stairs and flung the door open, ready to shout at whoever had woken his friend. He stopped short as he observed the visitor's pale face, his shaking hands, and the slight beads of sweat at the top of his forehead. All this Holmes noticed in a second, and in the next he had his arms out as he caught the crumpling figure of Constable Clarke.

**TBC**

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**A/N: You guys know how much I love reviews, and seeing as it's the holidays here, I should be updating pretty regularly. ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely a huge admirer.**

**Onto the next chapter...**

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_All this Holmes noticed in a second, and in the next he had his arms out as he caught the crumpling figure of Constable Clarke._

"Watson!" Holmes yelled as loud as he could, hoping he would wake his friend. He held the limp form of Clarky in his arms, and gently dragged him into the hall, shutting the front door with his foot. He heard Watson come out of the living room, and heard a curse as his friend saw the sight at the bottom of the stairs. Soon, he had joined Holmes and was pressing his fingers against Clarky's neck, searching for a pulse.

Seeming satisfied, he looked up at Holmes. "Can you carry him upstairs? I'm going to get my bag." Holmes nodded and Watson charged up the two flights of stairs to his room. Holmes gently placed Clarky over his shoulder and stood up. The constable was surprisingly light, and Holmes had no trouble lifting him up the stairs. Rushing into the room, he laid Clarky down on the couch where Watson had been minutes before, and stepped back as said doctor came into the room, carrying his medical bag. Watson crouched next to the unconscious constable, and opened his eyelids, using the fire nearby to use as a light source as he studied Clarky's pupils. Watson continued to check over Clarky, and after a while, he stood next to Holmes, with an expression of relief on his face as he watched the constable.

"Just a sedative," he breathed. "He'll be fine."

Holmes nodded and moved over to the couch with a handkerchief doused in brandy in his grip. He bent over Clarky and held it over his face. Clarky sniffed and turned his head slightly. Slowly, his eyes half opened and a pair of hazel-coloured eyes were staring up at them, slightly confused.

"Wha's happen'd? Where 'm I?" he slurred. Watson pressed a cool cloth to his forehead, soothing him as he did so.

"It's alright, Constable, you're alright. You're in 221B. You were drugged, is all. Go steady now; the effects are still wearing off."

Clarky blinked a few times, trying to shake off the vertigo feeling as Holmes and Watson helped him to sit up. "What happened?" he asked again, looking from the detective to the doctor.

"We were hoping you could tell us," Watson answered. "Do you remember anything?"

Clarky frowned. "I don't – it was dark... and I was trying to read–" Clarky's eyes widened and he rummaged in his pockets before pulling out a crumpled letter and handing it to Holmes. "Someone gave me this," he explained. "I didn't see their face, but I thought it was a little odd, seeing as it was late at night. Do you know what it means?"

Holmes opened the letter and read the contents, before handing it wordlessly to Watson. The doctor looked up at Holmes. "Do you think it's the same person?"

"Without a doubt." Holmes said solemnly.

"C.E.S." Watson muttered to himself. "Any idea who it is?"

"Charles Edward Silverstone." Holmes said. Watson looked sharply at him.

"Wait – you knew who it was?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," Holmes said quietly. "I had my suspicions."

"And you didn't think to tell me? Or Lestrade, for that matter. One of his officers has just been drugged, for goodness sake!"

"Well, I didn't think Silverstone would act so quickly!" Holmes shot back.

"The man gave us a week's notice! When did you think he was going to act?"

"I don't know!" Holmes' voice had risen to a shout. "That's why I didn't say anything to you! Silverstone hadn't yet done anything, and I was beginning to think C.E.S wasn't actually him!"

"You could have still told me you suspected him! Here we all are, losing sleep over who it might be that is trying to kill us, and you already know who it is!" Watson's voice had also risen to a shout.

"Oh, right. Because _this _is why you're not sleeping," Holmes snapped. "Every damned night I hear you make your way downstairs, and I _certainly _don't think it's because you wish to consult your notes on this case." Holmes clamped his mouth shut as soon as he said those words, and he prayed for the possibility that his friend hadn't heard, despite the fact he'd been shouting.

Watson froze, hurt and anger flickering across his face. Then he slowly shook his head. "That was unecessary." he said quietly, before gathering his coat and cane and limping out of the door, shutting it behind him.

"Fine!" Holmes shouted at the door. "Take the coward's way out!" He heard the front door slam loudly. "What the _hell _is wrong with me?" he said as soon as the door was shut. Watson was a soldier, for crying out loud, there was no way in Hell that he was or ever would be a coward. What he'd said was unforgivable. _Oh, and just like you_, Holmes thought to himself _to pick up on a man's weakness and throw it in his face. Very mature._ Holmes closed his eyes and sighed loudly.

Clarky stood up and coughed nervously. "Perhaps it would be best if I left." he said.

Holmes opened his eyes and looked at the constable. "I'm sorry," he replied. "I hope you feel better."

Clarky nodded. "It is not me you should be apologising to, sir." he said sombrely.

"I know." Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose.

Clarky shuffled his feet. "With all due respect, sir, perhaps it would be best if you went after him, instead of staying here."

Holmes raised his eyebrows, before softening his features. The man was right, but it was Holmes that was too chicken to take action. Instead, he ignored Clarky and fixed his eyes on a piece of paper that had fallen on the floor and landed next to the constable's feet. "You dropped this, Clarky." Holmes said as he stooped and picked up the paper, holding it out for him.

Clarky shook his head. "The only paper I had was the letter. It's either yours, or Doctor Watson's." He nodded his head to Holmes before leaving also.

Holmes flopped down on the couch and studied the paper. It was folded in half, but it had been crumpled in the past. No, it couldn't be Watson's, it was too untidy. Curious, he unfolded the paper and read it.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_ By now, I am sure you know that I was completely serious when I told you that you cannot be allowed to continue. The situation with Constable Clarke was an example of just what I can do. I have connections ranging from the docks in the East End, to friends in the royal family. I am also sure that you know who I am, and I must warn you thus: should you try to expose my identity to the public, I fear you may become a little... lonely, if you see my drift. It would be a shame, I must say, for the army will have suffered a great loss._

_ Yours,_

_ Charles Edward Silverstone_

Well at least he knew it was definitely Silverstone, Holmes thought. Though it was just perfect that he'd gotten Watson involved. Oh no, he couldn't have snooped quietly. He just _had _to make a scene. Holmes closed his eyes as the pounding headache reminded him that he had drastic amends to make, and soon.

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**A/N: So? What do you think? Was I too OOC? I'm still not sure where this story could go, so comment are always greatly appreciated, as you full well know. I'll update soon ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely a huge admirer.**

**Thank you all so much for your reviews, I love reading them!**

_Holmes closed his eyes as the pounding headache reminded him that he had drastic amends to make, and soon._

It had just gone two in the morning when John Watson gently cracked open the door to 221B. He silently shut it and paused on the doorstep, listening for any sounds. Mrs Hudson was currently away, visiting her sister, and Watson couldn't hear anything that would suggest Holmes was still awake. Yawning, Watson quietly limped up the stairs and noiselessly entered the living room. He hung up his coat and rested his cane against the wall. The room was pitch black and he felt around the furniture until he reached the couch, and he settled down on it, remembering Holmes' words and trying to be as quiet as possible. Exhaustion tugged at his consciousness, but he cast it aside. He had hoped the fresh air would awaken him a little, but if anything it had only made him drowsier. That said, he had been running on anger during the first hour away from Baker Street, and the chilly December air had continue to torment his leg, shoulder and now his chest. However, three hours later he was dead on his feet; all of his emotions dissolved away and he was left feeling empty and hollow, with an aching chest, shoulder and leg.

Now, as he lay upon the couch, once again thinking of something he could do to keep his senses alert, he couldn't help but reflect upon Holmes' words. Was he being cowardly about his nightmares? He knew that wasn't what Holmes had said, but it still left Watson thinking that perhaps he was taking this a little too seriously. It was, after all, only a dream, and dreams couldn't hurt you, could they? But this one had. Seeing young Collins' face every night had re awoken demons that he had struggled to keep hidden, and suddenly he was remembering all the men he had failed to save in India. And it hurt, knowing that then and now there was nothing he could do to save those innocent lives. Why should he be allowed to live and not them? What did he have that all the other brave, fearless soldiers didn't that permitted him to return home, with only a scratched shoulder to show all the pain and suffering he had caused? Holmes was right. He was a coward. He didn't deserve to live. Holmes didn't deserve him, a crippled doctor and a moping widower. He couldn't even save his own wife! What did that say about his skills as a doctor? 969 soldiers, British and Indian, had died at the Battle of Maiwand, and over 177 had been wounded. He had done what he could, but that had not been nearly enough.

Turning into the couch, he let out a shaky breath as he pressed his face into the soft cushions. Everything hurt, physically and emotionally, and he closed his eyes and welcomed the demons that haunted his dreams.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes sat on his bed with his head in his hands, pulling at the strands of hair and also feeling the effects of no sleep. He had heard Watson enter, and the only reason he had heard him in the first place was because he was listening for him. No doubt Watson had taken his cruel words to heart, and had attempted to be even quieter than he usually was, even though the original level of volume he had used had not been a problem for Holmes.

Gently, Holmes lifted himself from his bed and entered the living room. He was determined to apologise to his friend, whether he listened or not, but he stopped when he saw the figure of Watson lying on the couch, apparently asleep. Holmes frowned. Watson never slept if he could help it. He had heard him pacing his room in previous nights, obviously trying to stay awake.

Holmes moved over to the doctor and studied his face. His features were screwed up in pain, and now that he was looking closer, Holmes could see through the dark that Watson was shaking and fidgeting ever so slightly, clearly trying to fight whatever troubled him. Holmes could tell that Watson was about to reach the climax of his nightmare, by the way he bunched his hands into fists and shook his head every now and then, visibly becoming more and more agitated.

Uncertainly, Holmes reached out a hand and grasped Watson's good shoulder, shaking it gently. Watson murmured quietly and attempted to bat Holmes' hand away.

"Watson," Holmes whispered, "Wake up. It's just a dream." He shook his friend more vigorously, and Watson winced and twisted away from Holmes' grip.

"None of that now," Holmes said as Watson continued to squirm. "Watson!" he raised his voice, causing Watson to jump as at the same time his eyes flew open and he grabbed Holmes' wrist. He bolted upright on the couch and looked around him wildly, gasping for breath. As he adjusted to the dark, his eyes fell on Holmes, and he abruptly let go of his wrist, breaking his gaze from him as he did so. Eventually, he lay back down on the couch and closed his eyes.

"What do you want, Holmes? Was I preventing you from sleeping? Did you wake me to tell me to move?" Watson's words were laced with venom as he turned away from the detective.

Holmes winced and he placed a hand on Watson's shoulder. The doctor flinched but he did not attempt to remove Holmes' hand. "No, my dear Watson," he said softly. "I – I wanted to apologise."

Watson turned abruptly to face Holmes. "What?" he asked. The last thing he'd been expecting was an apology.

Holmes took a breath. "I'm sorry. I should never have said those things to you. They were malicious and cruel and I did not mean a word of them. It was unkind of me to mock you and I can promise you that I shall never, _ever _do it again."

Watson's features softened. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have shouted at you. I'm sure you had your reasons for not telling me about Silverstone, and I was too busy feeling sorry for myself rather than face the more pressing matters at hand. What's done is done. Quits?"

Holmes grinned at him, and Watson returned the smile, before replacing it with a yawn. "Though I'm afraid," Watson muttered as his eyelids tried to slide close. "You'll have to return to bed promptly. The whole half-two-in-the-morning look really doesn't suit you, and I fear the image shall be implanted in my memory if you are here any longer."

Holmes chuckled and began to walk his room, before another thought crossed his mind. He paused at the doorway and looked at Watson.

"You are not to blame." he told his friend. He had noticed that Watson had watched him go and realised that yet again, the doctor had no intention of sleeping that night. Now, as he saw his friend staring fixedly at the ceiling, Holmes knew his suspicions were correct.

Watson made no move to answer. Instead, he continued to gaze ahead.

"I mean it," Holmes said, walking back to Watson, "It wasn't your fault."

"Don't, Holmes." Watson twisted again to face the back of the couch. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Listen to me, Watson. You are the best doctor in the country, and there was nothing you could have done to save that boy."

"There should have been." Watson murmured.

"But there wasn't," Holmes said firmly. "Are you listening? Good. The bullet hit his heart, Watson. We all knew he wasn't going to make it, heck, even Collins knew it. But you were the one who tried to stop the inevitable, and calmed him when he began to panic. I doubt myself, Clarky or Anstruther would have had the courage to sit by a dying man and continue to talk to him in his last moments. You have a great heart, Watson, and no person can ever take that away from you. Do you hear me? Watson?" Holmes peered over his friend's shoulder to see his eyelids closed firmly and his breathing become more regular. Holmes rolled his eyes

"Nice to know I'm appreciated." Holmes muttered, though he knew Watson would have heard him out. He entered his bedroom and flung himself on top of the bed covers. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep off the anxiety for what was yet to come.

**A/N: I know this was a bit of a slow chapter, but I felt the need to add it. By the by, the facts about the Battle of Maiwand were completely true – 969 men did die, and more than 177 were injured. Next update soon ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.**

** Thank you all so much for the reviews you have been giving – you have no idea how humbled I am, and I hope you enjoy what's to come. I'm sorry to say that I'm going to be _so _busy over the next week, so I can't say specifically when I'll update. However, here's a longer chapter to make up for it ;)**

_He entered his bedroom and flung himself on top of the bed covers. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep off the anxiety for what was yet to come._

The next morning found the pair sat together at the table, eating breakfast that Watson had managed to prepare. Neither of them spoke – Watson was reading the newspaper and Holmes was devising strategies as to how to play the upcoming game – but they ate in companionable silence. Both men were looking slightly healthier from a decent night's sleep, and they could feel the effects themselves; Watson no longer felt as exhausted as he usually did, and Holmes found he could think a lot more clearer.

After finishing his meal, Holmes sat back in his chair and studied his friend. After a few minutes, Watson noticed and eyed him warily.

"What?" he asked.

"What do you think of Silverstone?" Holmes quizzed.

"You couldn't have asked me that in the first place?"

Holmes didn't say anything.

Watson sighed, before setting aside his own plate. "Well, I haven't heard of him before. Is he in the government?"

"He's a member of the House of Commons." Holmes corrected.

"Parliament?" Watson raised his eyebrows. "Then he would have considerable power over the government. Does he have any reason to abuse that power?"

Holmes shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of."

Watson nodded slowly. "Should we get Mycroft involved?"

"I've already messaged him. We're to meet him this afternoon."

"Right. And what about Clarky?"

"I've sent a message to him, too. My brother has kindly set up an estate where Clarky's wife can stay for a few days with a relative, and the constable himself is coming in the evening."

Watson seemed to accept this answer. "Alright," he said. "What do we do now?"

"Nothing," Holmes said simply. "I'm afraid we can't do anything until we know what we're up against, and we won't know _that _until Mycroft speaks to us."

"Seems a good idea, although I think it's fair to say that Silverstone is dangerous." Watson added.

"Your powers of observation continue to astound me Watson." Holmes said, before a crumpled napkin hit him in the face.

"I'm serious, Holmes. You need to be careful. Not knowing what he can do means you have to be all the more cautious."

"I'm always cautious." Holmes retorted, snatching the newspaper from Watson's grip.

"100 percent." Watson smirked and rose from the table, wincing slightly as the stitches across his chest tugged on his skin.

"Are you trying to prove a point?" Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow.

Watson smiled softly, "I didn't say anything." he called as he left the living room and ascended the stairs.

Holmes unfolded the newspaper, "You didn't have to." he muttered to himself.

* * *

Three hours later found Holmes and Watson sat side by side in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club. Mycroft Holmes sat behind his desk, fingers steepled together in a way so alike his brother that Watson had to fight back a smile. Holmes was staring levelly at the man, and Watson had the sneaking suspicion that the two of them were having some sort of telepathic battle. For five minutes Watson surveyed the surroundings of the office they were sat in: the red plush furniture and detailed architecture decorating the columns in the room allowed the doctor to ponder on how long it must have taken the designers to construct this building, and wonder how much it would have cost.

Finally, Watson grew tired, and he cleared his throat.

"Um... Mr Holmes?"

"Yes?" both Holmeses answered.

Watson looked at Sherlock, "Did you honestly think I was addressing you?" he asked quietly.

Holmes shrugged. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"What can I do for you, Doctor?" he asked.

"Were you – er – planning on telling us about Silverstone?" Watson asked, not sure if Mycroft really didn't know why they were there.

"Actually, yes. Seeing as my brother had asked so kindly," Mycroft smiled at Sherlock. The younger brother forced a smile back. "May I see the note?"

"What note?" Watson asked. "The letters?"

"No, no, Doctor. The note that the constable gave my brother last night."

"Last night?" Watson frowned. "Holmes?" he looked across again to see the detective rummaging in his pocket and producing a crumpled piece of paper, before handing it to his brother.

"When did Clarky give that to you?" Watson whispered to Holmes whilst Mycroft read it.

"Last night, after you left." Holmes answered.

"Right. And were you actually planning on telling me this time?"

Holmes shrugged again. "It didn't seem important."

"Didn't seem–? Holmes, if it's from Silverstone then it's going to be important. What does it say?" he continued to keep his voice low, conscious of Mycroft, who kept shooting looks at him whenever he raised his voice.

Holmes looked away, muttering incoherently.

Watson leant towards him, "Sorry?" he asked.

Holmes looked at him sombrely, but before he could say anything, he was interrupted his brother.

"Well, it would seem you two have quite a problem on your hands."

"You don't say," Holmes muttered. "What can you tell us about Silverstone?"

Mycroft sighed, "I fear I cannot tell you much. Were anyone to find out, my position would become compromised, and I'm sure I'd find myself without a job."

"Would you rather lose your brother over your job?" Watson uttered. Holmes smirked.

Mycroft gazed at Watson flatly. "Of course not. I was merely warning you of the precautions the two of you – and the constable, too – have to take when investigating this man. He was not bluffing when he said he had contacts everywhere."

"Who is he?" Holmes asked.

"He occupies a position in the House of Commons, and as you know, the House of Commons is more powerful than the House of Lords, and it can have an influence on the current Prime Minister. He has been known for having a very... expressive personality. He is not afraid to give his opinions, and he can easily manipulate those beneath him."

"But why did he hire Samuel Davis to capture Holmes? Surely he would have known the risk he was taking by having another man know his identity." Watson asked.

"He had to take that chance." Mycroft replied. "I fear that when Beatrice Reynolds came to my brother regarding her husband's disappearance and death, Silverstone grew desperate. I would imagine he had threatened or bribed the police officers involved on the case, so that no leads would point to him. When he found out you were on the case, Sherlock, he panicked. You already suspected someone of higher power, am I wrong?"

"No," Holmes said. "Clarky confirmed my suspicions when he pointed out the fact that someone blew up the warehouse Watson and I were in whilst Davis was still with us. As far as I know, Davis was not on some suicide mission. He was fully intent on exiting that building unscathed, so it suggests that someone was cleaning up the mess. By killing myself and Davis, people still remain oblivious, and if questions were asked, I assume Silverstone would explain that the explosion was because the empty buildings were being demolished, and the two of us happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"And when he found out that you were still alive, he sent people after us to finish the job." Watson finished. "But why is he taking his time now, when before you said he was panicked?" he added.

"Because this time he's thought it through," Mycroft explained. "And he has leverage, so he can be certain my brother will not expose him."

"Leverage? Is he blackmailing you?" Watson asked Holmes. The detective said nothing; instead he glared at his brother.

"He needs to know." Mycroft said softly to Holmes.

"Know what?" Watson said warily. "Holmes? Mycroft?"

Mycroft wordlessly handed the doctor the note. Watson opened it, but not before glancing at Holmes, who continued to stare at his brother, a scowl now crossing his face.

Watson read the contents on the piece of paper, and when he finished he handed back the note, thanked Mycroft for his time, and left.

Mycroft was the first to speak. "You have to let him in, Sherlock."

"No I don't." Holmes snapped back.

"Yes, you do." Mycroft said firmly. "If you still want him around – and believe me, you need him – then you have to start telling him the things you know about the cases you solve together."

"He hasn't complained in the past." Holmes said sulkily.

"No, and if I'm honest, that amazes me. But he's hurting, Sherlock. I'm sure the death of his wife a few months ago has taken its toll on him, and the fact that you were not around to support him – I know that wasn't your fault," Mycroft had added when Holmes had opened his mouth to argue, "But all the same, it didn't help. You need to tell him you trust him, otherwise he's going to break."

"Since when did you become such an expert on emotions?" Holmes scoffed.

Mycroft sighed. "Just do as you're told for once."

Holmes nodded and got up to leave. He held his hand out and Mycroft gave him the note. On the way out, Holmes tossed the piece of paper into the fire.

Outside, Holmes found the doctor on the edge of the curb, waiting for a cab. Holmes stood next to him, and took a breath.

"I trust you." he blurted out.

Watson frowned. "Alright."

Holmes turned to him. "Do you trust me?"

Watson turned too, so that the pair were face to face. The doctor sighed, thinking of an answer. "I don't know," he said honestly. "When we're pursuing criminals, I know that you'll watch out for me, but other times... How can I prepare myself for what's to happen if you won't tell me what's going on?"

"I'm sorry." Holmes said flatly.

Watson laughed coldly. "I'm sure you are."

Eventually, a large cab drew up alongside them. As Watson stretched out a hand towards the door handle, a man dressed in hand-me-down clothes grabbed the outstretched arm and twisted it roughly behind him. Watson cried out, and sank to his knees to lessen the pain. Holmes jumped forward, but another man walked firmly towards him, holding Watson's cane. The man swung at him, and Holmes quickly jumped back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Watson elbow his attacker in the groin, and the ruffian quickly let go of the doctor, bent double. Watson span out of the way and landed a hard blow on the man's back, sending him to the ground. Next, the doctor looked towards him, and quickly opened his mouth, but Holmes had already received the message. He too span around and knocked the man who was attempting to creep up on him sideways. Suddenly, a noise behind him distracted him, and he turned to see two more thugs assaulting Watson – one had the doctor's hands grasped firmly behind him, whilst the other firmly held a cloth to Watson's mouth and nose. Soon, his friend's eyes rolled backwards and he collapsed to the floor. Holmes realised his mistake of watching too late and tried to turn back around, but a harsh blow to the head also sent him down, darkness enveloping him before he hit the ground.

**A/N: Reviews are always appreciated, as you guys all know by now! Like I said before, I'm away for a few days, and the following week I have a ton of exams, so I honestly can't say when the next update will be, but I shall try to do it soon ;P **


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.**

**Thank you, thank you, **_**thank you **_**for all your lovely reviews!**

_Holmes realised his mistake of watching too late and tried to turn back around, but a harsh blow to the head also sent him down, darkness enveloping him before he hit the ground._

The constant throbbing of pain from the side of his head was the first thing to bring the consulting detective back to his senses. The cool feeling across his forehead was the second.

Sherlock Holmes' eyes remained closed, and he tried to focus on subduing the pain that continued to poke and prod at him. The coolness across his brow helped substantially, and it helped him to recall the events that had recently unfolded. Reluctantly he cracked his eyes open, and immediately, bursts of light flooded his vision, leaving him momentarily blinded and wincing against the pain rippling across his eyes and head. Eventually, the light died down, and his blurry vision cleared to reveal a very worried-looking doctor hovering over him and pressing a hand to his head. His brain took some moments to identify the person, but finally Holmes recognised the person as John Watson.

"Holmes? Can you hear me?"

"Mmph." was all he could manage. The doctor's face sagged in relief, and he allowed a small smile to form.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Divine." Holmes muttered.

"Haven't lost your sense of humour, then." Watson said, sitting back on his heels.

Holmes harrumphed in response and raised himself on his elbows to take in his surroundings. By the looks of things, the two of them were in a large stone cell together, the iron bars across the small square window suggesting they were in some sort of dungeon. The cell itself was constantly being harassed by cold draughts, and the square slabs on the floor did nothing to improve the temperature. The door was also stone, but there was a small gap at about eye-level where one could look through. The only light came from the window, and the rays of sunlight were currently dancing on Holmes' face.

"Where are we?" he asked Watson.

"No idea," the man replied.

"What happened to me?"

Watson smiled grimly. "Judging by the gash on the side of your head, I would say you were knocked out with something heavy."

"Oh," Holmes said, struggling to remember what had happened. "What about you? Were you hit too?"

Watson shook his head. "Chloroform. I can smell it on me."

"You alright?"

"Fine."

The two sat in silence for a while, before Holmes latched onto Watson's shoulder and pulled himself up, not noticing Watson wince as he did so. He wobbled for a minute, but soon regained his balance and made his way over to the door. Peering through, all he could see was a dark corridor. It appeared as though himself and Watson were in the end cell, whilst others were on either side of the empty hallway. Holmes strained to hear if anybody else could be in the cells, but no noises alerted him. With a huff, he turned back around and saw Watson still kneeling on the floor, staring off into space and cradling his right arm. Holmes suddenly remembered the fight on the street earlier – the ruffian grabbing Watson's outstretched arm and violently twisting it backwards – and he scolded himself for not ensuring that Watson was alright sooner. He moved over to the doctor and stood in front of him. Watson made no move to show he'd seen him, instead he continued to stare ahead of him as if he could see right through him. Holmes bent and placed a hand on Watson's arm, causing him to jump and snap his eyes up at him. He stood up and looked up and down the detective.

"What is it?" he asked. "Are you hurt someplace else?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I'm fine," he assured. "How bad is your shoulder?"

Watson relaxed his stance a little, though still he hesitated to answer.

"Watson?" Holmes prompted.

Watson sighed, before looking up at him. "Dislocated, I think," he answered. "It still hurts, but I'll be fine soon enough."

Holmes opened his mouth to say something, but stopped short when the door to the cell unbolted and a big-muscled man stepped inside. Holmes plucked at Watson's jacket sleeve, and drew them both away from him. The man was wearing a tight-fitted shirt, which could barely contain his muscled arms, and as Holmes looked at his face, he noticed a long scar that started at one end of his lips, and finished at the other, so that it looked like he was always wearing a sinister smile. Behind Smiley, came a much shorter fellow, who was plain enough, except he really did wear a sinister smile, as if he knew what was in store for the two of them. Both men stood next to each other, blocking the door, until Titan spoke.

"Which one of yous is Doctor Watson?" the small man's voice was rough and crackly, and he folded his arms as he waited for an answer.

"I am." Both men answered at the same time, and Watson shot Holmes a look.

Titan smiled to himself. "I'm gunna ask again, and if I gets the same response, I'll shoot yer kneecaps off." he said to Holmes. The detective shrugged, but stopped when Watson stood on his toe.

"Now then," Titan continued. "Who's Doctor Watson?"

"I am." Watson said quickly, elbowing Holmes in the ribs as he did so.

Titan seemed content with this answer. "Come wiv us." he turned to go and Smiley stepped aside.

Watson stayed where he was. "Why?" he asked.

Titan stopped in the doorway, and turned to face him. "Because if you don't," he said quietly. "I'm going to take your friend 'ere and tie him to a tree. Then, me an' my mates are gunna throw hundreds of rocks at him until the ground beneath him permanently stays red. After that, I'm gunna throw him off the nearest cliff into the sea and let the fishies down there eat him alive. That good enough for ya?"

Watson swallowed before standing up to his full height, and limping out of the cell with Teeny and Smiley.

Holmes stayed where he was after the door had banged closed, dreading what Silverstone (if it was Silverstone. It would be a very big coincidence if it wasn't) had planned for Watson. Eventually, he moved to the back of the cell and slumped down against the wall, stretching his legs out in front of him and closing his eyes. His head was still throbbing, and he was beginning to feel tired. Just his luck to finally be able to sleep somewhat peacefully, only to be kidnapped the following day. He felt deeply guilty for bringing Watson into this, though of course he was too stubborn to say so, and too selfish to realise this earlier. Time after time, he threw himself and Watson into dangerous situations, with no regards for either of their lives until it was too late. He'd always left the caring to Watson, and he had no desire to let his emotions get the better of him.

_ He's hurting, Sherlock_. Mycroft's words echoed around his head, and now that he was somewhere quiet, he couldn't stop them from resonating in his mind. _You need to tell him you trust him, otherwise he's going to break_. He did trust him. He'd waltz into the gates of Hell and know he'd have his loyal Boswell by his side, constantly watching out for them both and making sure they left alive and somewhat unharmed. Holmes had never even considered the possibility that Watson was hiding things from him – usually the doctor was an open book, and Holmes could easily tell what was on his mind. Ever since the events at the church, however, Watson had become more and more reserved, though he never tried to appear 'down' before his friend. Holmes sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, desperately hoping Watson was alright.

* * *

He was awakened suddenly by the loud clanging of the door, and he stood up as it opened to reveal Smiley dragging the limp form of Watson alongside him. He entered the cell and unceremoniously threw the doctor down and left. Holmes rushed towards his friend, and managed to catch him before he hit the floor. He looked down at his friend, who was now coming to, and felt a rush of anger as he studied the damage done. Purple bruises were plastered across his body, and crimson blood oozed from a large cut along his left cheekbone. His right arm was swollen red, and rope burns were lashed around both wrists. The dislocated shoulder was looking extremely out of place, and his right hand was blistering.

Watson's eyelids fluttered, and his green eyes focused on Holmes' brown ones. He forced a weak smile and tried not to wince as he slowly sat up.

"Evening." he croaked.

"What did they do to you?" Holmes said, forcing back the emotions that threatened to surface.

"Nothing serious." he muttered.

"Have you _seen _yourself? Tell me, please."

"I don't want to." Watson whispered.

"Why not?" Holmes asked incredulously.

"Because I know how you'll react. It's best you don't know."

Holmes knew he wasn't going to get anything from him, so he changed his tactics. "What did they want?"

Watson frowned. "They wanted this." he dug in his pocket, and pulled out a small, velvet box. He opened it up to reveal a silver ring containing a small, red ruby. Watson handed it to Holmes and waited for his opinion.

"I'm sorry, Watson, you're not my type." Holmes stated as he studied the ring. Watson smiled as he mentally processed his injuries. "Whose is it?" he asked.

Watson looked up at him, surprised that Holmes didn't remember, though he knew Holmes didn't care for romantic trifles. "Catherine Collins'." he answered.

Holmes looked up sharply. "Patrick Collins' fiancée?"

Watson nodded. "I've yet to give it to her, and I suppose they knew I still had it."

"Do they know you have it on you?" Holmes asked.

Watson shook his head. "I told them it was on a ship somewhere headed to France."

Holmes raised his eyebrows but said nothing. "They mustn't know we've got it."

"I kind of gathered that." Watson said.

For a second time that evening, the door shuddered open, and Smiley came in. Watson quickly stuffed the box back in his pocket as the man walked into the cell.

"Mr. Olmes. If you'd be so kind." Smiley said. Holmes got up, and casting one last look at Watson – who nodded imperceptibly – strutted confidently out of the cell.

**A/N: Again, I don't know when next I'll be able to update, but thank you all so much for reviewing, favouriting and alerting. Please leave reviews, and I'll update ASAP ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.**

**A thousand apologies for the long delay, but the exams are **_**finally **_**over! Here's a longer chapter to make up for it...**

_Holmes got up, and casting one last look at Watson – who nodded imperceptibly – strutted confidently out of the cell._

Constable Clarke pressed one finger on the doorbell of 221B Baker Street and waited. And waited a bit more. A little more longer. _Any time soon_, Clarky thought to himself, _it's not like anyone's trying to kill us_. The constable huffed and rapped impatiently on the door, waiting for someone to be bothered to get up and answer it. It came as a great surprise to him, therefore, when it slowly and noisily opened at his knocking.

Cautiously, Clarky pushed open the door and stepped inside. Silently he crept up the stairs until he had reached the living room. The door was already opened, and he peered inside. The room was chaotic. Papers were strewn across the floor, and half of the furniture was over-turned. Clothing was ripped apart as if someone had been looking for something. Clarky wondered around the flat – looking in Holmes' and Watson's bedroom also – and concluded that whatever they had been looking for, they had not found it, otherwise there would have been a part of the flat that was still tidy. Clarky strained to think what it was that these people could have wanted, but nothing came to mind. Standing in the middle of the room, a small, white handkerchief laid near the door of Holmes' bedroom caught his eye. Frowning, he stooped to pick it up, and his eyes widened when he saw the initials _C.E.S _sewn into it. Who did Mr. Holmes' think was behind this? _Silverstone_, Clarky remembered, _someone called Silverstone. Did he come here in person? _Would he really risk himself to personally come to the flat and look for something? It seemed unlikely, but Clarky couldn't rule it out – they didn't know what this man was capable of.

Clarky considered his options. He could go to Inspector Lestrade, which was the more sensible option, but something deep down told him it wasn't a good idea. He was already disobeying him by not telling him anything, and Clarky suspected this wouldn't improve matters. Next option: Search for Holmes and Doctor Watson himself. Again, not the best of ideas, seeing as he had no idea where they were. He had never heard of this Silverstone character, so he didn't have a clue where he lived. Which left option three. There was only one person who could help him, and if he was honest, it wasn't his favourite option, but it had to be done. With a sigh, he traipsed down the steps and left 221B Baker Street. After five minutes of fidgeting on the pavement, the constable finally managed to hail a cab, and soon he was shouting the address to the cab driver.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes jerked for the fifth time as a violently punch struck his face. He was restrained from moving as the ropes that tied him to the chair across his feet and wrists prevented him from doing so. The empty room echoed at every breath he made, and the low lighting made Holmes squint whenever his captor walked into the shadows. He hung his head for a second, composing himself, before glaring back up at the small man. Titan grinned down at him and stalked around his chair.

"I'm gonna ask you again, Mr 'Olmes," he said. "Where's the ring?"

Holmes played his poker face, "What ring?" he asked innocently.

Titan smiled down at his hands as he cracked his knuckles. "You're good at this game, but I'm afraid you ain't gonna last much longer. You may as well give up now and spare yer life." he said menacingly.

"Oh, well in that case, it's somewhere on the English Channel." Holmes said.

Titan stopped in front of his chair and lent down in front of him. "The doctor's a good liar," he said quietly, "but yer both gunna have to do better than that to convince me. So hows about you tell me, an' I'll consider lettin' you both go in one piece."

Holmes smiled at him. "You really need to work on your persuasion techniques."

Titan lost his grin, and roughly backhanded Holmes across the face. He stepped back from the detective and walked over to a table. The small man caught Smiley's eye and nodded once at him. The giant left the room, leaving a threatening silence between the two men.

"In some ways, I suppose I can thank you," Titan said, as he picked up one of the objects on the table and studied it. "You've given me an excuse to play with my toys." He turned and held a long machete in his hand. Menacingly, he walked over back to Holmes, running the blade between his fingers as he did so. Holmes instinctively lent back in the chair as it approached him. It stopped inches from his face, and he could smell Titan's vile breath as he spoke.

"Tell me where it is, Mr 'Olmes." Titan whispered. Holmes said nothing. Instead, he glared back at him.

Titan smiled to himself. "I'm gunna enjoy this." With that, he whipped the blade across Holmes' cheek, and the blinding pain caused Holmes to cry out. He grimaced as the constant trickle of blood ran down his face, and slowly the pain subsided, leaving Holmes glaring at Titan again. Once more, Titan slashed the blade, this time slicing across Holmes chest. He continued to do so, until Holmes' shirt was stained red. Holmes had refrained from shouting out by biting the insides of his cheeks, and the copper taste of blood dominated his mouth.

Finally, Titan stopped. "Change of heart?" he asked, wiping the blade on his shirt.

Holmes spat out some blood. "In your dreams, midget."

Anger flashed across Titans' face and he lashed out, sending punches wherever he could hit. Holmes could feel bruises sprouting across his face, and he was certain a few ribs had cracked. Again and again he beat the detective, furiously sending blows to his head, body and arms. When Titan finished releasing his anger, Holmes was aware of unconsciousness threatening to take him away. He pushed it away, determined to see this through.

Titan was breathing heavily, and was about to lash out again when a new voice spoke from the shadows.

"You've done quite enough, Fredericks." The voice was quiet and silky, and Holmes tensed as soon as he heard it. Titan smiled and backed away, leaving the room with a loud clang.

"You have impressed me, Mr. Holmes. I have to say, I did not expect you to last this long."

Holmes remained silent. Instead, he squinted through the darkness to try and find the source of the voice. He did not have to look long as a tall man entered one of the yellow circles of light the candles on the walls were casting. He was wearing a black three-piece suit, and his long, grey hair was slicked back along his head. He stood very proudly, and Holmes immediately knew this was Charles Silverstone.

Silverstone was studying Holmes intently and he smiled to himself. "Most people would have passed out by now."

Holmes snorted. Silverstone frowned at him. "You don't believe me?"

"No, I don't," he agreed. "You clearly haven't done this before. The chair which I am sitting on is polished, suggesting that this has most probably come from your sitting room. We are in your mansion, correct?" Silverstone said nothing.

Holmes continued, "Of course we are. Like I said, you're new to this game, and you're not imaginative enough to take us someplace away from your home. Even Davis was smarter than you! He at least held me in an empty warehouse. Anyway, back to this chair. If I was one of many prisoners, this chair would be scratched or stained with blood – it would definitely not be polished. Ergo, Watson and I are your first customers and you have only just set up shop in haste of our arrival."

The lord smiled to himself, "Quite right, Mr. Holmes, which only persuades me further to just be done with it and subject you to a slow and painful death. However, if you tell me where that engagement ring is, I will kill you swiftly and prevent you from suffering. Mess me around, though, and I will ensure that you will be begging for mercy by the end of the night." Silverstone's voice was menacing. Desperation had made him even more threatening, and Holmes knew he was not bluffing. Still, he remained passive, gazing at Silverstone levelly.

"You really think that petty little speech was going to change my mind?" he asked.

Silverstone smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."

* * *

Clarky sat nervously in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club, bouncing his leg up and down quickly. The door behind him opened, and he swivelled to see the stoic figure of Mycroft Holmes enter. He hurriedly stood and offered his hand, but the elder Holmes brushed past it.

"Sit, constable," he said as he too sat at his desk, "and tell me what this is about."

Clarky took a breath, "Mr. Holmes, your brother and Doctor Watson have been taken by a man called Silverstone."

Mycroft did not seem surprised at this. "Indeed? And why, pray tell, have you come to me?"

Clarky was lost for words for a second. Eventually, he stammered a response. "Well, sir, he is your brother–"

"My brother is always getting himself into scrapes, constable, and I am perfectly confident that he will escape. You don't think so?" Mycroft said, narrowing his eyes at Clarky.

"No, sir, I don't. We don't know what Silverstone is capable of, and we need to get them out."

Mycroft seemed to accept this answer. "And what do you propose?" he asked.

Clarky swallowed. "If you could give me Silverstone's address, I'm sure I could–"

"You think you rescue the two of them alone? You just said that we don't know Silverstone might do, so how do you plan on forming an escape plan?" Mycroft asked, slightly amused.

Clarky was beginning to get irritated. What was with all the questions? "Well, what do _you _think we should do...sir?" he added after his outburst.

Mycroft did not care about the retort. Instead, he focussed his gaze on Clarky. "If Silverstone is taking risks, then so should we."

Clarky frowned. "What sort of risks?" he asked cautiously.

Mycroft did not answer him. "Do you know where the nearest factory is?" he asked instead.

"Yes, there's one a few streets away from Westminster. Why?"

"Do you know anyone there?"

"Yes, sir – my wife's cousin works there. What has this got to do with Silverstone?"

"Listen to my instructions very carefully."

* * *

Holmes said nothing as Silverstone paced in front of him. Surely Silverstone knew that nothing he was going to do would change his mind? He was certain he'd made that expressively clear, if the bruises growing on his body had anything to show for it. He watched Silverstone closely, still trying to work out why a lord would want an engagement ring belonging to a young – and now deceased – doctor. No ideas came to mind, so he waited for Silverstone's next move.

Silverstone stopped pacing when a knock at the door interrupted the silence. A small smile crept across his face as he turned to Holmes.

"I am giving you one last chance, Mr. Holmes. Tell me where that ring is."

"Why?" Holmes asked instead.

Silverstone paused. "Why what?"

"Why do you need that ring?"

"That is for me to know and you to find out, though you won't have much time left to do so." he said, smiling again.

"If I'm going to die, why not just tell me? Surely it will add to your victory, knowing that I know and there's nothing I can do to stop you." Holmes prompted.

Silverstone seemed to consider this. "Alright," he said finally, "I'll tell you. That ring has a message on it that I need."

"A message?" Holmes asked, confused. "Where would a message be on a ring?"

"On the band, of course. The message will lead me to a key."

"A key?" Holmes was refraining from chuckling, "you're going on a treasure hunt?"

Silverstone scowled at him. "The stakes are a lot higher than a chest of gold." he said sceptically.

"What are they, then?"

"World domination." Silverstone said proudly.

"You're going to have to be a bit more specific." Holmes said, rolling his eyes.

"The key will unlock a volt which contains the designs of all the royal buildings in the world. Buckingham Palace, the Imperial Palace, the White House, Taj Mahal, any that you think of has plans that are contained in that volt."

Holmes laughed. "An assassination? This is what this is? Why, though? Why are _you _doing this?"

Silverstone sneered at him. "Because this world is wrong." he said simply.

Holmes waited for him to continue. When he didn't, Holmes spoke. "Care to elaborate?"

"We should be in a world where people are free to do what they please, and no higher power should tell them what's right or wrong and decide things for them."

"That's good, coming from a lord," Holmes muttered, "And you really think you're plan is going to work?"

"I'm certain it will."

"You're mad." Holmes told him.

Silverstone snapped out of his trance. "We'll see." he said. "Now then, are you going to tell me where that ring is, or am I going to have to use other methods?"

"Hmm. Let me think." Holmes said sarcastically.

Silverstone's smile grew. "I'm sure I can change your mind. Fredericks!" he called loudly.

The door at the back of the room opened, and Fredericks strutted in. Behind him, Smiley followed, and Holmes' eyes widened when he saw John Watson – hands bound behind him and mouth gagged, whilst struggling weakly – dragged in behind him. Watson was thrown on the floor at Silverstone's feet, and he groaned when his dislocated shoulder hit the hard floor.

"No," Holmes said. "Leave him alone!"

Silverstone ignored him. He trailed over to the doctor and crouched in front of him.

"What about you, Doctor? Care to tell me where the ring is?" Prevented from speaking, Watson growled and struggled vehemently.

Silverstone smiled. "That's what I thought." He stood up, and motioned to Smiley, before standing out of the way of the giant. He stooped and grabbed Watson, roughly hauling him to his feet and kept a firm hold on him. Fredericks sauntered over, picking up the machete from the table as he did so. He stopped in front of Watson, the knife hovering over his chest. Before he could act, however, Watson abruptly kneed him in the crotch. Fredericks cried out and folded, clutching himself as he scurried away. Holmes couldn't help but chuckle as the small man whimpered pathetically. Silverstone did not find it so amusing. He nodded at Smiley, who literally lifted Watson off his feet and threw him against the wall. Holmes heard the sickening _crack _as Watson's head collided with the wall and he crumpled to the floor. Struggling against his bonds, Holmes tried to get Silverstone's attention. Again, he was ignored as Smiley strode over to the moaning doctor and pulled him to his knees. He pulled out a small blade and held it to Watson's neck, awaiting instructions from his boss.

"Now, then," Silverstone said, addressing Holmes. "What happens next is up to you."

Holmes cast a look at Watson, who shook his head desperately. Blood was running down his face, and the bruises were more pronounced than ever. With no choice, Holmes smiled sadly at his friend, and opened his mouth to talk. He stopped, however, when he heard a loud noise from outside the open door.

* * *

Clarky hopped out of the hansom and onto the gravel driveway, clutching a large metal bucket in his grip. He had been assured that the large house would be empty, but he knew there were people underground. Silently, he struggled to open the front door and made his way into the entrance hall. A large, grand staircase was straight in front of him, with doors to his left and right. He looked sideways and found a long and glamorous corridor. He hesitated about the task he was about to do, but when he remembered who lived here he took no time in running down it, splashing the liquid along the walls as he did so. He found a smaller staircase and hurried up it, spilling the contents as he did so. There were another long corridor, and doors decorating the opposite wall. Again, he rushed down the hallway, letting the liquid pour over the bucket and coat the walls, floor and doors.

Once he was back down the grand staircase and at his starting point, Clarky moved over to one of the doors and opened it. There was a narrow set of stairs leading downwards, and looking down at the remaining liquid in his bucket, made his way down whilst throwing the contents about. Downstairs was a maze of corridors, and at one end, Clarky could hear voices. Hastening along that corridor he completely emptied the bucket before throwing it down on the floor, a loud clang echoing off the walls. Sprinting back down the corridor and up the stairs, Clarky paused at the entrance door, catching his breath. He rummaged in his pockets before his hand enclosed around a match box. He pulled it out and lit a match. He took a breath, and prayed the detective and doctor could get out in time, before he threw the match onto the trail of liquid and ran as fast as he could out of Silverstone's mansion before the great line of raging fire behind him could engulf himself and his surroundings.

**A/N: Finally managed to write this chapter. Again, apologies for the delay, but updates from now on should be fairly regular. Please please please review, and thank you again for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.**

**Apologies for delay – had another exam I didn't realise I had, but it's all over now and I'm completely focused on this... until I get distracted by a bright light or something...**

_He took a breath, and prayed the detective and doctor could get out in time, before he threw the match onto the trail of liquid and ran as fast as he could out of Silverstone's mansion before the great line of raging fire behind him could engulf himself and his surroundings._

Sherlock Holmes frowned at the faint noise outside. He could have sworn he'd heard footsteps. He looked to Silverstone and could tell he'd heard it too. John Watson still had the knife to his throat, but Smiley had loosened his grip a little whilst waiting for orders from his boss. Holmes silently urged Silverstone to make a decision quickly – he could feel blood still seeping from the slashes on his chest and he knew he was fading. By the state of him, Holmes imagined Watson wouldn't last much longer either. Silverstone was still looking towards the door, and he shot a sharp look at Fredericks before ordering him to go and see what the noise was. The small man staggered across the floor, still affected by Watson's blow, and left the room. A second later, the entire corridor suddenly lit up and a piercing scream was heard. Fredericks pelted back into the room with the lower half of his body ablaze. He continued to scream and looked desperately at his employer, who stood staring at him with wide eyes.

"GET DOWN, NOW!" Watson yelled, his voice hoarse. Somehow, he had managed to remove his gag and was trying to get the man to listen to him. Fredericks glanced at him, and realising the doctor was trying to help, promptly fell to the floor. He stayed on his front, the flames slowly consuming him.

"ROLL, YOU IDIOT!" Holmes added. Immediately, Fredericks was thrashing around the floor. The flames would not subdue, though, for there was too much gasoline on Fredericks' person. Soon his clothing was burning to a crisp, and Holmes winced when he heard the hissing of the man's smouldering skin. Watson was trying to break free from Smiley's grip, but the giant would not let him go. Instead, the doctor fixed his gaze on Silverstone, who was still watching the scene before him.

"FOR GOD'S SAKE, HELP HIM!" Watson screamed. Silverstone slowly slid his eyes to rest on him, before returning them back to Fredericks. He put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a revolver. Before anyone could say anything, Silverstone had fired a shot into Fredericks' head, immediately silencing the thrashing and yells. The flames continued to lick him, and Watson froze, staring in horror at Silverstone who still had his arm raised. Instantly, he snapped back to reality and faced Smiley. The tall man looked at Silverstone, and when his boss nodded, he violently struck Watson around the head with the hilt of his knife and sent him wordlessly crashing to the floor, hands still bound behind him.

"NO!" Holmes yelled, "What the hell was that for!"

"That," Silverstone answered, "Was because you can't escape now, as your ticket out of here is currently immobilised." With that, he motioned to Smiley, and the pair of them walked around Holmes' chair and out of his line of vision. He heard a bang behind him, of doors closing shut, before he was left alone with the unconscious doctor and the impending fire. Futilely, he struggled against his bonds, but the rope was too tight. He tried to lift the chair off the ground, but when he looked down he found the piece of furniture was bolted to the floor. He could feel the smoke contaminating his lungs, and instantly began coughing heavily.

"Watson!" he croaked, but his friend did not stir.

He continued to cough continuously now, and his eyes were beginning to water from the poisonous gas. His body was beginning to shut down, and Holmes fought valiantly to keep his eyes open. However, soon the smoke was too much, and he couldn't breathe in enough air as he coughed. His last look was of Watson sprawled on the floor, his chest barely moving, before darkness overwhelmed him.

* * *

Something in the back of his mind was annoying him. At the current moment, he was in a state of bliss. But a dull throbbing on his head was beginning to pull him back to reality. He sucked in a breath, and immediately tried to cough it back out, sending a bolt of pain through his head as he did so. Blearily, he cracked open his eyes and was immediately attacked by a burning sensation, causing him to glue them shut again. Wait a minute. Slowly, he squinted through his eyelids and confirmed what he thought he had seen a second ago. Strength suddenly coursed through his body, and he ignored the burning as he opened his eyes fully to take in the scene.

Smoke. That was the first thing he saw, and smelt. The thick, black blanket was engulfing him and his surroundings, and he could faintly see what he thought was a chair a few feet away. He blinked and allowed his vision to clear. It was definitely a chair, and it seemed as though there was someone on it. Swallowing his fears, he focused his gaze on the person slumped on the furniture. He paled as his mind confirmed that said person was Sherlock Holmes.

Watson tried to reach out, but found that something was restricting his hands. Frowning, he attempted to move his arms, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and realised that they were bound behind him. He growled and struggled violently against them but they wouldn't budge. He struggled harder, now fully aware of the great wall of fire that had consumed one wall and was slowly creeping up on him. Suddenly, a glint caught his eye, and he couldn't believe his luck when he saw the small blade that the giant had been using against him. He placed his feet against the floor and propelled himself forward, towards the inferno. He continued to do this until he shimmied round and felt the blade in his grip. The heat was considerably greater on this side of the room, and Watson found that even sawing some rope was beginning to tire him. Finally, his bonds broke free, and he gingerly sat up and massaged his wrists. Once the feeling in them had returned, he gently raised himself on his feet and stumbled towards Holmes. His vision was beginning to grow worse as the smoke thickened, and he used the cloth that was loosely tied around his neck and had been used as a gag to feebly try and aid his breathing.

Watson dropped to his knees in front of Holmes and immediately began untying the ropes around his feet, calling his name in an attempt to rouse him as he did so. Next he moved to Holmes' wrists, wincing as he saw the rope burns around them. Once the bonds were off of him, Holmes listed forward and Watson quickly caught him in his arms, trying not to aggravate the wounds on his chest. Watson gently laid him on the floor and lightly tapped him on the cheeks to coax him back to consciousness.

"H-Holmes," he said between coughs, "W-wake up!" the detective kept his eyes closed and showed no signs of stirring. Watson looked around him, desperately looking for a way out. Where did Silverstone go? He couldn't have gone through the corridor without being burned alive, so where was the other exit? He cast his vision to behind the chair and could have sworn he seen a light. Absentmindedly patting Holmes on the shoulder in comfort, he got up and slowly walked into the fog. Looking at the floor a few metres away from the chair, a vertical sliver of light gave him his answer. Watson tilted his head back and searched the ceiling, and allowed a smile to cross his features when he saw the faint outline of the exterior basement door a few steps in front of him, undoubtedly leading to the outside world. Watson moved towards it, and caught himself when his foot hit something. Reaching out, he felt the cool, concrete stairs leading up to the doors, and let out a triumphant cry. Turning around, however, that cry soon faded from his lips when he saw the distance the fire had travelled. It had now eaten away half of the side walls, and was easily destroying the wooden furniture. It would be a matter of seconds before it reached the limp form of Holmes.

Rushing back towards his friend, Watson snatched him away from the fire's grip and easily carried him in his arms across the floor. He blindly raced up the steps, cautious not to trip and drop his friend, and cursed aloud when his head crashed against the doors. Coughing still, he set down Holmes and searched for a handle and cursed again when he found none. He pounded heavily against the doors, but soon gave up when the white-hot pain in his head and shoulder protested loudly against the action. He slumped down against the wall and closed his eyes, willing himself to gather some strength and _breathe_. Breathing was becoming difficult, and Watson knew the both of them were not going to last long. He forced himself to carry on, and soon he was standing again on shaky legs. He awkwardly threw his good shoulder up against the doors, and almost missed the creak as the hinges began to lessen their grip on the door. Determinedly, he threw himself again at them, and this time he did not miss the resulting _crack_ as one of the hinges snapped and released their grip completely. Moving down a few steps, Watson shot a powerful kick at the broken corner, and almost shouted in relief as a large chunk broke off. A limited amount of daylight flooded in and briefly held of the looming smoke, but there was not enough oxygen in his lungs to keep him going for much longer. Blindly, he stuck his hand out of the gap and fumbled for the handle. The tips of his fingers brushed against something metal, but he could not get any closer to it. Defeated he slumped against the wall, his arm slipping back into what was left of the basement. Watson's energy was pouring from him, and he weakly struck the doors, but to no avail. His hand fell to his side and brushed against something in his pocket. He froze. _You have got to be kidding_, he thought to himself. Slowly, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out his old service revolver. He smacked his head against the door in annoyance, before gathering the remaining threads of strength he had left. He raised his arm, and pointed the gun at the doors. A sharp _crack _threatened to deafen him, but he did not care. Weakly gathering Holmes in his arms, he pushed against the doors and stumbled into the bright light. Watson gently laid Holmes down on the soft grass and looked around him. His vision began to blur as the coughing continued and the pain everywhere in his body overtook him. He faintly remembered a figure dressed in an officer's uniform sprinting towards him, before his knees buckled and his world went black.

**TBC**

**A/N: I realise this isn't the most exciting of chapters, but I promise the next ones will be better. You know I love receiving reviews, so need I ask?**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.**

_He faintly remembered a figure dressed in an officer's uniform sprinting towards him, before his knees buckled and his world went black._

Constable Clarke reached John Watson seconds after he collapsed and dropped to his knees beside him. He placed a hand on his shoulder and gently shook him.

"Doctor Watson," he called, "Sir, you need to wake up!"

Watson muttered and managed to slide his eyelids open. Still looking hazy, Clarky shook one of his shoulders more roughly, but immediately let go when the doctor cried out in pain. Bright green eyes gazed up at him before moving past him to look around. The three of them were sprawled on the lawn of Silverstone's burning manor, and Clarky knew they needed to move urgently.

"Wha's happened?" Watson slurred.

"You just got out of Lord Silverstone's mansion, Doctor... Mr. Holmes is unconscious."

"Holmes?" Watson asked, raising his head weakly. Blearily, he looked around for his friend, and once he found him he cautiously rolled onto his stomach, wincing as he did so, and crawled towards him.

Upon reaching him, he immediately put two fingers against Holmes' neck whilst putting the other hand underneath his nose. Watson's mind was beginning to wake up, and he could think clearly as he assessed the injuries. Wiping away the blood that was trickling down his face and ignoring the searing pain in his head, he concentrated on diagnosing Holmes.

"Still breathing, but faintly, so carbon monoxide poisoning isn't imminent," he muttered to himself, "Unconsciousness most likely caused by blood loss." As he spoke, he opened Holmes' shirt to examine the long cuts along his chest. He gently probed Holmes' ribs, and found that none were broken, though a few were cracked. Buttoning up his shirt, Watson next inspected the bruises forming on his face, and closely scrutinized the gash on the back of his head. Once he'd finished, he lightly tapped Holmes on the cheek and tried to wake him.

"Holmes," he called, "Can you hear me?" Watson could see Holmes' eyes fluttering behind their lids, and continued to coax him back to reality.

"I know it hurts old boy, but you need to wake up." he said softly.

"Doesn' hurt," the detective whispered, eyes still closed.

"Well then open your eyes." Watson teased.

"Can't. 'm tired."

"All these excuses." Watson muttered quietly.

"I heard tha'" he said. Finally, the brown eyes opened and Watson smiled comfortingly at him.

"Can you sit up?" Watson asked.

"'Course I can." Holmes answered. He got halfway between lying down and sitting before gasping and falling back to the ground, eliciting another wince as his head hit the grass.

"Stubborn idiot." Watson said and gently raised his friend into a sitting position whilst watching him closely. Holmes noticed this and rolled his eyes.

"I'm not about to catch on fire." He said without realising the irony of the situation.

It was Watson's turn to roll his eyes and he looked behind him at Clarky, who was stood a few metres away, and asked him to help him get Holmes up. Together, the two men had Holmes standing on shaky legs and leaning heavily against Watson.

"Do you think you could call a cab?" Watson asked, fighting the dizziness that had returned as he'd stood.

Clarky turned around, gazing at Silverstone's driveway, before facing Watson and Holmes.

"There's already a hansom waiting for us." he answered.

Watson nodded and slipped an arm around Holmes' waist, whilst placing Holmes' arm across his shoulders. Slowly, he moved them both across the lawn, Clarky leading the way, and eventually reached the road. It was a little difficult getting into the cab, but soon enough Holmes and Watson were sat on one side, with Clarky on the other. Without speaking to the driver, the hansom began moving and soon they were on the main road travelling to some unknown destination.

"Mycroft's?" Holmes asked, eyes scrunched closed against the pain.

"Yes, sir. Your brother sent me."

"How did he know we were here?" Watson asked.

"Probably some form of telepathy." Holmes muttered, no sarcasm in his voice. Watson noticed the change of tone, and only now saw that Holmes' was battling a very large headache.

"Do you feel nauseous?" he asked.

"Why would I?" Holmes asked sardonically.

Watson ignored the jibe, "I'm serious, Holmes. You inhaled a lot of smoke, and I'm sure the gash on your head doesn't help. Put your head between your knees." he said.

"I'm not doing that." Holmes answered stubbornly.

Well then I'm letting you explain to Mycroft why his carriage is covered in vomit."

Holmes quickly ducked down.

"What did Lord Silverstone want?" Clarky asked them.

"He wanted Catherine Collins' engagement ring. Did he tell you why?" Watson directed this last question at Holmes, who spoke from between his legs.

"It's a key that will unlock a volt which holds the designs of all the buildings that currently are housing royals and world leaders."

Watson and Clarky stared at him in shock.

"Why?" Watsons stuttered.

"Oh, it's simple really. Apparently, it's because 'this world is wrong'."

Watson raised his eyebrows. "Who would've thought the man had morals?" he muttered.

"Mmm." Holmes said in agreement.

"What sort of key?"

"Haven't the faintest." Holmes lied.

Soon the hansom stopped, and Clarky looked apologetically at Watson and the slumped form of Holmes.

"Erm, Mr. Holmes senior has asked that I report back to him." he admitted.

Holmes said nothing, but waved his hand at him. Watson nodded at the constable as he left and went to report to Mycroft.

The carriage continued travelling and Watson addressed Holmes.

"Do you feel any better, or worse, for that matter?"

"'m fine." he mumbled.

Watson sighed. "Just answer my question, for once, Holmes."

Holmes sighed also. "My ribs hurt. That's it."

Watson nodded, sensing that Holmes was finished with this conversation, but his doctor instincts were overriding him, so he continued to prod.

"What else, Holmes?" he asked, knowing he hadn't been given a full answer.

"Nothing. I'm fine." The detective muttered.

"Holmes, your head is–"

"I said I'm fine!" Holmes shouted, raising his head from his knees to glare at him. "I am trying to concentrate and I cannot think clearly with you constantly badgering me with petty questions! Dear Lord, can't you just keep quiet for a few minutes?"

"You may not _have _a 'few minutes'! You may not be concerned for your own welfare, but I am!" Watson shot back, "You have _no idea _of the amount of times that I think you've died on me, whether from initial damage or from the after effects, and Goddammit, I cannot lose you again!" He hadn't meant to say that last part, and quickly averted his gaze to the window so he would not see Holmes' condescending look. However, nothing prevented him from hearing the 'harrumph' that the detective made as he too looked out of his own window.

Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the journey, and an hour later they arrived at their destination. The two of them stepped out of the hansom and it soon drove away, leaving them staring at what seemed to be a warehouse. Both of them visibly shuddered as memories flooded back, and Holmes suspected that Mycroft was most probably making a tongue-in-cheek reference to the night Holmes had plainly let go of his emotions. He would have to have words with him later.

As they made their way towards the warehouse, the only difference to this one from the last one they had been in was this building had only just been abandoned, the new wood and intact windows showing that it was not old and decaying. As they entered the small entrance, the long room was filled with long, metal containers reaching all the way across the floor, creating an impossible maze for anyone who should venture between the narrow gaps.

Wordlessly, Holmes made his way upstairs, and Watson followed suit, blinking away the dizziness that came with every step. Once there, they were greeted with a horizontal corridor reaching from one end of the room to the other, and housing three doors along one side. Holmes walked towards the nearest one and stepped into the room. Inside was a wooden desk and chair, and three thick afghan blankets spread lazily on the cold ground. Watson left Holmes there and went to inspect the other rooms. Inside the next was a small kitchenette, with a wooden table in the middle and a black stove towards the back. The last room provided the bathroom, complete with a tin bath, washbowl, a stool and a tall mirror propped against the wall. Watson entered the bathroom and went to one of the cupboards. He opened it and rummaged around inside until his hand clasped an old cloth, bandages, a needle and thin string. He stuffed the objects in his pocket and, picking up the washbowl as he did so, left the bathroom and quickly went downstairs. Exiting the warehouse, Watson looked along the street until his eyes fell upon a water pump outside a house.

Returning to the warehouse, he carefully and slowly made his way back up the stairs and into the first room. Holmes was gazing out of the window, most likely ignoring him, but Watson paid him no attention and placed the washbowl on the floor next to the desk. He noticed out of the corner of his eye Holmes turn and subtly watch him, but again Watson carried on with his task. He drew the chair from the desk and placed it in the middle of the room. He moved the washbowl across to the chair with his foot, sloshing water about as he did so, and spun to face Holmes' back.

"Holmes." he called. Holmes grunted in response.

"_Holmes_." he said more firmly, causing the detective to twist.

"Sit." he pointed to the chair. Holmes scoffed and faced the window.

"SIT!" Watson shouted, trying not to smirk as he saw Holmes jump. Like an animal with his tail between his legs, Holmes dragged his feet across the floor and reluctantly sat down.

"Thank you." Watson said sarcastically. He took the cloth out from his pocket and dunked it in the cold water. Ensuring it was thoroughly clean, he rinsed out the excess water and began to dab at the wound on Holmes' head. He noticed the hiss that came from Holmes' lips, but decided not to damage the man's pride by commenting on it. Holmes kept his eyes on Watson, glaring at him as he drew out a needle and string and began to stitch the wound together. He said nothing and continued to scowl as the doctor began to undo his shirt and applied the bandages around his ribs, ensuring they were tight and supportive.

Once he was finished, Watson cleaned the cloth and needle, and silently picked them up and left the room. Holmes remained on the chair, and heard Watson enter a room a few doors down. He sighed, and placed his head in his hands, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes. He hadn't meant to shout earlier. Watson had managed to somehow save them both from a burning building, and he repays him by yelling at his concern? He was going to have to do something about his temper. He was suddenly interrupted in his thoughts by a sharp yelp, followed by a splash, from down the corridor, and he was up in an instant, rushing across the top floor to the bathroom.

When he entered he saw a pale-faced Watson throwing contents that Holmes couldn't see from the washbowl out of the window. When he turned and saw Holmes, he smiled sheepishly.

"Threw up." he explained

Holmes mouthed a silent 'Oh', before frowning, "Why?"

"I – er – I managed to put my shoulder back in its socket."

"You alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Your head's bleeding."

"My–?" Watson span to examine himself in the mirror, and cursed when he noticed the trickle of blood running down his face. He bent to pick up the cloth, but hesitated when it hovered over the dirty washbowl. Holmes stepped forward.

"I'll clean it." he suggested.

Watson smiled his appreciation, but refused, leaving the room and entering five minutes later with a washbowl full of water. He stooped to pick up the cloth again, but Holmes snatched it before he could.

"Let me," he said, "Sit down," he gestured to the stool.

Watson tried to grab the cloth and opened his mouth to argue, but Holmes moved it out of his reach and cut him off.

"Sit!" he raised his voice, mimicking Watson's earlier words. The doctor huffed and sat on the stool, and allowed Holmes to clean his wound. He hesitated as he reached for the string, and Watson saw this as an opportunity to stop him.

"It's alright, Holmes, it's not that deep." he assured.

"You were thrown against a wall and then hit with the hilt of a knife."

Watson could think of nothing to say to this.

Holmes smirked and picked up the needle. He fluently threaded the string through Watson's skin and soon had the wound closed tightly shut. Watson looked in the mirror to see the stitches and raised his eyes in surprise at the tidiness of it.

"I'll make a doctor of you yet, Holmes." he said as he left the bathroom and returned to office. Holmes smiled and followed. When he entered the room Watson was already laying out two of the blankets. Night had approached quickly, and Holmes' pocket watch told him it was eleven o'clock. To think that it had only been twenty-four hours since Clarky had first appeared on their doorstep unknowingly drugged.

Holmes moved over to the window and looked outside. The streets were quiet with only a few couples walking home, most probably from a trip to the theatre, and the lamplighter was steadily illuminating each road. No sign of any assassins.

"Holmes?" Watson called. He was already lying on the floor with the heavy blanket draped over him. "Are you planning on sleeping tonight?"

"Doubt it. Someone needs to keep a look out, just in case. Not you Watson," he added as Watson sat up and began to remove the blanket. "God knows you need to sleep." he muttered.

Though still unsatisfied with this arrangement, Watson lied down and closed his eyes.

When he awoke, he was on his own. It was still dark, but Holmes had left the room, and the blanket beside him had not been touched. What could he possibly doing in the middle of the night?

"Holmes?" he called out warily, "Where are you?"

When there was no answer, Watson quietly snuck out of his blanket and padded in his socks across the room. He pressed his ear to the door, and his heart plummeted when he heard a voice he did not recognise, followed by the strained voice of Holmes. It sounded as though this man was threatening him, and Watson wasted no time in flinging open the door and brandishing his revolver.

Confirming his fears, there was indeed a man there, but as soon as he saw Watson he had roughly spun Holmes round to face the doctor and put a gun to his head. Holmes was on his knees and was steadily watching him with a warning look in his eyes, urging him not to do anything rash.

"One more step, an' 'e gets it." the stranger rasped.

Watson held up his hands, "I'm not going to do anything, I'm just–" Involuntarily, he took a tiny step forward, and the man panicked. With a loud flash, the _crack _of the gun went off and reverberated around his ears. Watson cried out, and sprinted towards the slumped figure of Holmes. The man had mysteriously vanished, leaving just him and the detective.

When Watson reached his friend, it was with a broken heart that he reached out and rolled the cold body onto its back. Lifeless eyes gazed up at him, and he couldn't help but let out a sob. The look of betrayal on Holmes' features ripped at his heart, and the echo of the gunshot continued to taunt him, Holmes' blood on his hands burning on him like a cruel fire.

"NO!" he started upright and searched about him in a panic. Tears streamed down his face, but he made no noise as his elevated breathing increased when again, he saw the blanket with no occupant.

Suddenly a pair of hands gripped his arms and he jumped violently, but calmed somewhat when he saw the very concerned face of Holmes swim into view. The same hands cupped his face and forced him to focus on those brown eyes, all the while muttering words of comfort that Watson could not hear. That damned echoing of the bullet ricocheted around his head and he couldn't shake it away. The tears continued to fall down and over Holmes' hands, but he had no way of stopping them.

"H-Holmes," he stuttered. "I t-thought... he s-shot.. it was t-too fast... I couldn't–" Holmes shushed him and ran his thumb along his cheek soothingly, but Watson wouldn't calm. He was still breathing far too quickly and his eyes were out of focus as if he were reliving the nightmare. Holmes moved his hands down to his arms and gripped him tightly, but nothing could shake the doctor from his reverie.

"Watson. Watson!" he gently shook the doctor as his breathing soon turned to hyperventilation, and began to panic when nothing would soothe him. One method entered his head, but he was cautious to use it. The outcome was too risky, and he didn't want to forfeit their friendship. Still, it was known to have the best effects and most people did it in these situations, but again, he couldn't gauge what Watson's reaction would be and he didn't want the doctor thinking any less of him. All this entered his mind as a steady flood of tears fell down Watson's face and the breathing reached its maximum. _Pride be damned_, Holmes thought.

He hugged him.

Holmes could feel Watson stiffen immediately in his grasp, but on the plus side the hyperventilating had stopped. He closed his eyes in anticipation, and almost breathed a sigh of relief when he felt Watson's arms slowly wrap around his waist. His breathing was still hitched though, and he could feel him shaking in his arms, so he slowly rubbed his back up and down and muttered comfortingly. After a few minutes Watson's breathing returned to normal and the doctor rested his head on Holmes' shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Nonsense," Holmes replied, "It's hardly your fault."

He was beginning to see why people did this. Though he would always prefer to stay solitary, he had to admit the embrace calmed him too. Eventually, the two pulled apart, and Watson gave an awkward smile. Before either of them could say anything, however, a muffled _bang _from downstairs alerted the two to the fact that someone had just entered the warehouse.

**TBC**

**A/N: Again, I know this isn't the most exciting of chapters, but it's got to get worse before it gets better, right. I was a little unsure as to whether I should include the 'hug scene', but I imagined myself in Holmes' position and that would be the only thing I would think to do. However, I do know that it is _Sherlock Holmes _we're talking about, so feel free to tell me if you think he or any other characters were out of character. Please review, you know how much I love reading them, and thanks to those who have also favourited or alerted ;)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.**

_Before either of them could say anything, however, a muffled bang from downstairs alerted the two to the fact that someone had just entered the warehouse._

The pair froze. Holmes put a finger to his lips, motioning Watson to stay quiet. The doctor nodded, and followed Holmes as he stood and quietly moved over to the office door. The detective began to silently descend the stairs, stopping halfway and crouching so he could peer into the ground floor of the warehouse.

Across the vast room, fifteen men were stood near the door, all carrying pistols. They were whispering to each other, and one of them, who seemed to be in charge, was gesturing at them, most likely telling them which way to go. Soon after, fourteen of them split up, spreading apart as they entered the maze created by the long containers and holding their weapons aloft. The fifteenth man stayed by the door, preventing anyone from coming in or getting out.

Holmes tugged on Watson's sleeve, and together they stole down the stairs, cautious not to make any noises. Once they'd reached the ground, Holmes turned to Watson and put his lips to his ear.

"Do you still have your revolver, old boy?" Watson nodded in confirmation, "Good. Stay by me and do not make a noise." Watson rolled his eyes but agreed all the same. The pair crept towards the entrance to the building, and Holmes drew Watson aside as they hid behind one of the containers. Holmes glanced around the corner and smiled when he saw he had a perfect shot of the man standing guard. He turned back to Watson.

"As soon as I fire," he whispered, "we run, and do not stop running. Understand?" Watson nodded and drew his revolver out of his pocket, preparing for what was to come. Holmes nodded back and turned again to face the man. Raising his gun, he focused it on the head and fired a single shot, the sound echoing off the walls. Instantly, the man dropped lifelessly to the ground, but at the same time, an uproar of voices was heard across the warehouse, shouting incoherently and giving orders. Holmes froze, trying to place the voices so he could find them. He realised suddenly that one of the voices was dangerously close, and had evidently spotted them due to the exclamation, but before he could do anything, Watson had grabbed his arm and was racing down one of the aisles. They turned every other corner; ensuring they shook off their pursuer, and briefly paused for breath against one of the containers. Holmes checked the corner, just in case, and turned back to Watson after he was sure there was no one there.

"Ready?" Again, Watson nodded, but there was a trace of a smile on his lips.

"I'm not sure Mycroft knows the meaning of the word 'safe house'." he said.

Holmes grinned in response as they warily made their way through the maze. Shouts were still being thrown from around the room, and Holmes could tell that these men were not experienced, which made them all the more dangerous.

Suddenly, a shot rang out from behind them, hitting the container in front of them. Watson immediately jumped forward and tackled Holmes to the ground. The doctor quickly twisted, and bringing his revolver round, he fired at the man a few feet in front of them and watched as blood poured from his chest and he fell to the ground. Watson spun back to face Holmes, but the detective was already up and running after another man. Cursing, he pushed himself to his feet and sprinted after him, revolver in hand. The dim lighting was preventing Watson from keeping his view on the distant figure in front of him, and soon he was on his own. He did not stop, but kept running, determined to find Holmes.

A shout from his left, however, halted him in his tracks, and he just had time to see a figure whip across the aisle. Watson soon gave chase, and ran around the corner where he had seen one of the attackers. The man was just about to run out of his sight, but Watson raised his gun and fired. He paused, and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the confirming _thud _of someone falling to the ground. Quickly, he hurried over to the man and pressed his fingers to his neck. Breathing, but not for much longer. Watson found his bullet lodged in the man's neck. _You're losing your touch_, he thought to himself. Dismissing the man, he stepped over him and hurried along the aisles. He continued to do so for ten more minutes, coming across no one. Every time he heard a cry or a shot, his heart would jolt, but he would manage to convince himself it wasn't Holmes.

Not realising where he was going, he didn't notice as he turned around the corner the tall man stood opposite him about twenty metres away. That is, he didn't notice the man until he had fired a bullet that tore across his arm. Giving a sharp cry of pain and clutching his left arm, Watson flew to the side of the aisle to conceal himself more, and promptly shot at the man. Wordlessly, the man sank to the ground, blood flowing from the centre of his forehead. Watson gazed down at his arm, and calmed somewhat when he saw the bullet had not struck any bones or muscles. _Merely a graze_. Racing once more along the aisles, Watson soon found himself back at the entrance. He was about to head for the stairs when all of a sudden a hand grasped his shoulder. Crying out in surprise, he whirled and brandished his revolver, but paused when he saw Constable Clarke looking back at him.

"Clarky." Watson breathed, "Why is it you always appear just in the nick of time?"

Clarky shrugged, "I have my moments."

Watson smiled at him, "Are you armed?" he asked.

Clarky nodded, displaying his revolver from within his pocket.

"Good," Watson said. "Keep it out. You'll need it."

He led the constable towards the staircase and they climbed halfway up. Stopping there, Watson turned and scanned the warehouse for Holmes. So far he had seen eight other men, which meant there were three he had not spotted. Finally, he saw Holmes stalking around near the far right corner, and quickly turned back to Clarky.

"Stay near the entrance, and shoot anybody who comes in or out." he said, before turning to go.

"Wait!" Clarky grabbed his arm, but let go when Watson hissed. "I came here to tell you that Lord Silverstone has given a reward for yours and Mr. Holmes' capture, though I've heard that he's actually on his way here. Also... the police are going to arrest you, sir."

"What?" Watson whispered incredulously, "What for?"

"Silverstone has claimed that you murdered one of his men, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's bribed some of the officers down at the Yard."

"But _he _killed one of his men. Is Holmes going to be arrested, too?" he asked, fearing the worst.

"No, just you, sir. You would've thought he'd want the two of you."

"He thinks Holmes has the ring." Watson said.

"What? How do you know?"

"Because he's using _me_ to get to _him_. Clarky, if you run into Holmes whilst we're still in the warehouse, you mustn't tell him any of this."

"Alright. Why?"

"It'll distract him, and he'll end up getting shot." he answered solemnly

"Fine." Clarky agreed, "But before you go sir, take this." He held in his hand a small object, and knowing what he was implying, Watson snatched it up before hurrying down the stairs.

xxx

Holmes sprinted around the corner, and dove to the floor as a shower of bullets pelted the container above him. Scrambling across the cold ground, he sat against the metal wall and counted his bullets. Two shots left. He'd already shot four men, including the guard at the door, and it was crucial he did not miss. Risking a glance around the corner, he saw another figure briskly making his way over. Before he could move back, however, the man noticed him and began running. Cursing, Holmes span back and fired at the same time his attacker did. The stranger screamed as the bullet hit his stomach, and he staggered to the floor. Holmes felt the oncoming bullet breeze past him, inches from his face, and lodge itself in the container behind him.

One bullet left, and he'd left his supply of bullets at home. _Oh no, _the voice in his head said sarcastically, _we're only going to fight a very dangerous and highly malicious person who doesn't have a clue what he's doing which only makes him more hazardous. We haven't the faintest idea how this will turn out, nor for how long. No, six bullets will be more than enough to keep them alive._

Ignoring his thoughts, he peered once more around the container, and his eyes snagged on the handle of the large unit. Forgetting the situation he was in, he stood up and tested the metal lever. It gave way to his grip, but not before giving out a very loud groan. _Well if they didn't know where I was before, they will now_. As if the voice was making a point, he heard a quiet shuffling on a few rows down, and Holmes quickly abandoned the lever and resumed his position with his back against the container. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement, and he turned his gaze straight ahead to find a shadowed figure quietly making his way along the aisles. _The first of the pursuers with common sense_, Holmes thought to himself. He noticed the man limped slightly as he walked, and Holmes put his revolver back in his pocket, deciding not to waste his last shot on this man. Silently, he stalked up to the figure, who had now stopped and was most probably straining for any noises from him. There was no light to give this man an identity, but the moonlight revealed his silhouette, and Holmes thought out his method of attack as he reached him.

Stopping a foot away, Holmes leapt into action. A quick blow to the weaker leg caused his knee to buckle. He cried out and tried to spin, but Holmes clamped a firm hand around his mouth and threw them both to the floor. Using his legs, he roughly pinned the man's arms down, ignoring the muffled hiss, and placed his hands around his throat. Unexpectedly, however, the attacker sharply kneed him in the small of his back, causing Holmes to arch and fall forward. The figure swiftly moved out from underneath Holmes, and had soon swapped positions with Holmes, straddling him and leaving him immobile with his face pressed against the cool concrete. It wasn't a surprise when he felt the cool metal of a revolver being pressed against the back of his head.

"Say your goodbyes, you bastard." the voice said, and Holmes froze. The next thing he knew, he was chuckling into the ground. He felt the man on top of him also momentarily freeze, stunned at what Holmes was doing.

"Care to enlighten me on the joke?" the voice asked.

Holmes continued to laugh, "I don't think you'd find it very amusing," he said, and he felt the figure relax, "You've never really understood any of my jokes, Watson."

The doctor clambered off Holmes' back and onto his own back, also chuckling. "You idiot," Watson smiled "I could have killed you."

"Well then the world would have lost its inspiration." Holmes said regally. Watson rolled his eyes and lightly elbowed Holmes on the arm. When Holmes returned the gesture, he noticed the small wince that Watson gave, though to his credit the doctor covered it up pretty well.

"Let me see." Holmes said softly, still face down on the floor.

Watson turned his head to look at him. Knowing that an argument would be pointless, he quietly shrugged off his jacket (for there were still eight men trying to find them) and rolled up his sleeve. A long gash decorated his tanned arm just above the elbow, and dried blood was caked around it.

"Quite superficial. Just a scratch." Watson assured him.

"Hmph. Remember what happened last time you said that?"

Watson smiled again. "How many more have you shot?"

"Four. You?"

"Three."

"Seven left, then."

"Clarky's here." Watson said abruptly.

"He is? Whereabouts?"

"Near the entrance."

Holmes seemed satisfied with this answer. "The more the merrier...Well, I guess I'd better be off." he said as he got to his feet. "Lovely seeing you, Watson. We should really do this again some time."

Watson quickly stood up, a look of confusion on his face. "We can't split up again." he said.

Holmes turned to face him, "I hate this just as much as you do, but we'll get the job done a lot quicker if we're not constantly looking out for each other. Do you have your pocket watch on you? Good. Meet back at the entrance in twenty minutes."

"If I can find the entrance." Watson muttered, "How many bullets do you have left?"

"One." Watson rolled his eyes, before unloading his gun and handing one of his bullets to Holmes. "There," he said, "Now we both have two."

Holmes shot a grateful look at his friend before scurrying into the shadows. He heard Watson behind head in the opposite direction, and prayed the two of them would meet in twenty minute's time.

A flicker of movement ahead of him caught his attention, and he abruptly fired his revolver at the figure. Moving over, he confirmed that it was indeed another attacker. _One bullet left again_, the voice chirped. _The bullet had to go somewhere! _he argued back, leaving a satisfying silence in his head. Smirking to himself, he continued through the maze, and surprisingly found himself at the front wall. Walking alongside it, he began to see the entrance door in the distance. He stopped, however, when he saw the distinctive figure of Clarky being roughly pushed against the wall by a much bigger man. Creeping closer, Holmes crouched behind a container, making sure he was within earshot of the 'conversation'.

"Who has it?" the attacker growled. Clarky was practically on tip-toe as he struggled against the firm grip.

"I told you, I don't know!" he shouted. As a response, the thug roughly backhanded him across the face. "Tell me!" he cried.

"I can't!" This time, the attacker drew back his fist and violently punched the constable across the face.

"You gonna listen to that detective bloke? He ain't nofink to yer. He thinks you're worfless."He continued to hit him, again and again, until finally Clarky reluctantly caved.

"Alright," he gasped, blood spouting from his cheek and forehead, "You're right. It's the doctor. Doctor Watson has it."

Grinning, the thug threw Clarky to the ground and sauntered off to find his partners.

Holmes could only stay where he was, frozen in place by the betrayal.

**A/N: What was the small object Clarky gave Watson? Do you believe Clarky would betray them. Or did you see this coming, knowing how predictable I can be? Reviews and thoughts are much appreciated, and I shall try to update soon :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.**

**On with the show...**

_Holmes could only stay where he was, frozen in place by the betrayal._

Snapping back to reality, Sherlock Holmes was up and running to the fallen constable before his brain had time to process what he was doing. Upon reaching him, he grabbed Clarky by the lapels and roughly sat him up.

"What the _devil _do you think you're doing?" he hissed, shaking him as he did so. Clarky's head lolled on his shoulders and he blinked hard before focusing on Holmes. A look of confusion crossed his face as the blood continued to trickle downwards.

"'s fine. We're safe." he mumbled.

Holmes' anger began to bubble, "You and I may be safe, but don't think for one _second _that John Watson will walk away from this unscathed. You've just signed his death sentence, you coward!"

Clarky frowned, "No," he muttered, "'s alright... plan will work." He continued to blink away the dizziness that had appeared from the hard blows.

"We will not be al– wait, what plan?" Holmes asked, puzzled.

"The plan... with the ring." was the answer.

"...Clarky," Holmes said sternly, all suspicions of the constable being a traitor disappearing in an instant, "what's going on? What's Watson going to do?"

"'s fine, sir." Clarky repeated, his eyes beginning to slide shut in an attempt to block out the pain from the pounding in his head.

"No, answer my question, Constable!" Clarky ignored him and suddenly fell limp in his arms. Holmes swore and gently lifted him, moving him over to the shadows where no one could see them. He lowered the small figure to the ground and quickly checked his pulse. It was still fairly regular, but if he stayed much longer concussion would set in and the constable would find himself in a coma. _Perhaps shaking him wasn't the best method I could have used_, Holmes thought to himself. Before he could do anything else though, two loud shots resounded around the warehouse. Face paling and cursing even louder, Holmes left Clarky and once again entered the maze.

Left, right, left again, Holmes tried to find the source of the gunshots as he continued deeper and deeper into the warehouse. Soon he began to hear voices, and knew he was getting close. There were two he didn't recognise, and, slowing his pace, Holmes began to creep towards them, cautious not to make any sounds.

"Just calm down, Max!" one of them said. He had a very strong Cockney accent, and Holmes would guess he was somewhere in his thirties.

"He bloody shot me!" another voice sounded. This one was a lot closer to Holmes as he crouched behind a container, planning his next move. He couldn't help but smirk as the whiney voice squealed with pain. "Right in the foot, Jack!"

"Will you shut it? You ain't gonna die, so get a grip!"

"What if me foot needs amputatin'?"

"Well, that's what yer get for tryin' to shoot his brains out! The boss said don't kill 'em until they give us the ring, so why'd you aim for the 'ead!"

"It don't matter, I missed!"

"Yeah, 'cause 'e moved out the way. If 'e hadn't, you'd be six feet under before you know it."

"Boss wouldn't kill me," Max said quietly, "'e needs us."

Jack scoffed, "We're disposable, mate. _He _isn't. Yet. We need 'im to give us that ring is."

"But what if 'e don't?"

"I am still here, you know." Watson's voice rang over their argument, and Holmes could tell he was the farthest away.

Both men became silent, as if they had only just noticed his presence.

"Then we'll make 'im." Jack answered in a low voice.

Holmes heard Watson scoff, "I'd like to see you try."

There was a scuffle as two sets of feet (well, one set of feet and a hop from Max) moved away from where Holmes was and towards Watson. He risked a glance round and turned to see a tall, blond-haired man, the same man that attacked Clarky and was presumably Jack, along with a shorter, black-haired man who was hopping awkwardly. Watson was sat against a container, nursing a bloody nose. He didn't seem scared, more concerned about the blood on his face. He glanced up with a disinterested look as the two men approached.

"Give it to us" Max asked in his high voice.

"Give you what?" Watson asked innocently.

"The ring." Jack interrupted.

Watson sighed heavily, "Don't suppose either of you have a tissue, do you?"

Max growled and swung at Watson, hitting him hard round the face. Watson fell sideways, coughing blood as he slowly propped himself back to a sitting position. "A simple 'no' would have been enough." he muttered.

Jack ignored him, "Give it to me. _Please_." he said sarcastically.

Watson seemed to consider his answer. "And if I do?"

Max answered him, "We'll let you and yer mates walk out of 'ere. We'll simply let you alone and withdraw all our men in this building. The boss needn't know you got out alive."

Watson smiled at him, "I'd like to believe you, but unfortunately you have a tell," he said, "you blinked a lot more than usual just now, and you did it earlier when you said Silverstone wouldn't kill you."

"I weren't lying – I 'ave 'ayfever!" Max said quickly.

Watson scoffed again and rolled his eyes, "We're in the middle of London, genius."

Jack cut Max off before the small man could retort. "Listen," he said, "hows about you give us the ring, an' we won't kill yer other friends."

"How could you kill them? You have no idea where–" Watson stopped mid-sentence when he locked eyes with Holmes. Realising what he'd done, the doctor hastily turned back to the two men, but Jack had already turned around after following Watson's gaze and set his sights on the detective. Seeing no way out of it, Holmes stood and boldly walked out from behind the container.

Jack turned back to the Watson, whilst Max pointed a revolver at Holmes. "I'll give you one more chance Doctor, before Max 'ere shoots Mr. Holmes where he stands."

Holmes had his hands out in a placating gesture, but he still shook his head firmly at Watson. "Don't do it." he said.

Watson watched him solemnly for a while, before gradually looking at Jack. A small yet sad smile broke across his features. "How could I refuse a friend?" he asked.

Max didn't wait for orders. He focused his aim and abruptly pulled the trigger. At the same time, Watson shouted, "Move!" and Holmes dived out of the way. However, a sudden searing pain like a white-hot needle in his left calf told him the bullet had found a mark. He couldn't help but let out a cry as he crashed to the floor, the leg colliding with the cold concrete, and he noticed Watson visibly pale when crimson blood began to stain his trouser leg.

"Take that as a warning." Jack said, "Do you really want us to ask you again?"

Watson was still frozen, watching as the stain spread along his friend's leg, but he soon snapped back to reality. "You idiot." He muttered under his breath, but Holmes wasn't sure he was talking to him or just to himself.

Glaring at their two attackers, Watson fished in his pocket until he pulled out a blue velvet box. He slowly stood up and walked over to stand in front of Holmes, thrusting the box into Jack's hand as he did so. Content, the tall man put the ring in his jacket pocket and motioned to Max before walking off. The smaller man seemed to hesitate, eyeing up the figure of Holmes on the floor and the fire-arms in his own hand. Before he could do anything else, the cold butt of a revolver was pressed against the side of his head.

"I suggest you keep walking. Or hopping, in your case. Unless you want to make it crawling." Watson growled menacingly. Max swallowed and nodded, before scurrying as quickly as he could with one foot towards his companion. As soon as they were gone, Watson dropped to Holmes' side.

"Holmes," he said as he ripped open the detective's trouser leg, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have been so stupid." He tore off a long strip of his shirt and hastily wrapped it around Holmes' calf.

"Stop 'pologisin'," Holmes said, "Why'd you give 'im the ring? I thought the whole point of this was that we wouldn' give the ring back."

Watson began to speak, but stopped when id SilverstoneHolmes cried out as the doctor pulled the bandage tight. His breathing became irregular as he tried to fight off the agonising currents that were spiralling up and down his muscles like electricity, and he tried to focus on Watson as a distraction.

Watson apologised again. "It's for the best, old boy, trust me."

"I do." Holmes rasped, scrunching his eyes up in pain. "With my life."

Watson smiled as he continued to tie the make-shift bandage. "The one time I don't bring my bandages." he muttered, somewhat sardonically.

"'s alright, jus' a scratch."

Watson chuckled at this comment, "You've jinxed it now, Holmes." he scolded.

"Meh." Holmes answered, eyes still closed. "I haven't the time for sorcery and witchcraft. It drains me."

Watson chuckled again. "You say that as if you've already practised it."

Holmes half shrugged. "I saw it as a possible career path when I was younger."

"And what a marvellous magician you would've made." Watson answered. "We need to get you upstairs somehow. There are some bandages up in the office."

Holmes hummed in response. "You'll need to bandage Clarky, too."

"What?" Watson asked sharply, "What happened to him?"

"Got knocked out by that big guy. Jack, I think his name was."

"Hmm. A delightful fellow, if ever I saw one. Has more manners than you, that's for sure. He even said please to me."

"Kiss-ass." Holmes muttered.

Watson ignored him. "Come on, we need to get you up."

Holmes raised himself to a sitting position with Watson holding him upright. Slipping an arm round the detective's waist, and grabbing Holmes' arm, Watson gently hoisted them both up.

Slowly, they made their way through the maze, ears strained for any noises or sounds that could alert them to an attacker. Soon enough, they had made it to the staircase, though Holmes saw it as Mount Everest. Watson noticed Holmes pale at the climb before them, and before the detective could say anything, he had lifted Holmes over one shoulder. Holmes let out an exclamation of shock as Watson began – somewhat wobbly – to climb the stairs and reach the landing. Holmes could feel Watson limping ever so slightly, no doubt from the cold weather and from the weight of a consulting detective on his ex-dislocated shoulder. Soon, Holmes was deposited in a chair, and he immediately scowled at Watson.

"There was no need for that." he said gruffly.

"There was every need." Watson answered, "Now stop being so bloody grumpy. I'm afraid you're going to have to stay here, whilst I go and fetch Constable Clarke. Do you think you can mange?"

"'Spose." Holmes muttered.

Watson gave him one last smile before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. As soon as the doctor had gone, Holmes let out a hiss of pain, clutching his leg in an attempt to lessen the agony. If anything, it made it worse, and Holmes had to bite his lip in order to stop himself from crying out. Tenderly, he peeled back the ripped trouser leg and examined the blood-stained 'bandage'. The bullet had gone straight through him, and blood was freely pouring from the wound. And it hurt like hell.

"Son of a gun." Holmes hissed as he prodded the wound, eliciting a flare of pain as a result.

He was interrupted in his cursing by the sound of the door creaking open. Glancing up, Holmes was about to give Watson an earful of how much his damned leg hurt, but his words back-tracked when he saw the tall figure of Charles Edward Silverstone before him.

"You know," said Silverstone as he extracted the blue box from his pocket and began lightly throwing it up and down. He took a few steps forward and looked at the slumped form of Holmes, victory gleaming in his eyes, "I honestly didn't think you were all going to give up so easily. I'll admit that I was beginning to get desperate. And you know what they say, desperate times call for desperate–"

"Don't finish that sentence. It really doesn't work for you." Holmes said in a bored tone.

Silverstone seemed slightly shocked at the interruption, but soon regained his composure. "No matter," he replied, "I have what I need, and before you know it I will be your emperor. People will bow down to me and–"

"What I don't understand," Holmes interrupted again, rolling his eyes at the silver-haired man in front of him, "is how Patrick Collins came to be in possession of it."

Silverstone now looked thoroughly disgruntled at having been broken off a second time. He looked Holmes in the eyes and smiled softly. "Well," said he, "seeing as you and your little friends won't be leaving this warehouse alive I don't see why I can't indulge you. I'll tell you how that boy came into possession of it." He paused for effect. Holmes raised his eyebrows. Silverstone continued, now in a slightly annoyed tone. "It was because Mr. Fredericks – you remember him, don't you? Yes, I thought so. Anyway, Mr. Fredericks decided to go out one night and get very intoxicated. One of my close friends who happened to be there told me that he was talking to this Collins boy and waving the ring around for all to see. He then gave the ring to the boy and told him that "the ring holds many secrets and mustn't be misused". Not very helpful, I know. At that point two of my men entered the bar, unaware that the ring was no longer in Fredericks' possession, and took him away before he could drink anymore."

Holmes couldn't help but grin at the man, "You lost your precious ring in a pub? Not very good protection, for something so valuable, is it?"

Silverstone's face turned sour, "Yes, well, I agree it wasn't my best moment, but that doesn't matter anymore. I have it now, and there's nothing you can do that can stop me." He continued to bounce it up and down, but something deep down in Holmes was nagging at him, something about the appearance of the box. Casting it aside, he quickly caught the lord's attention as said person was about to turn and leave.

"You can't honestly think you're going to get away with this, do you?" Holmes asked, the incredulousness in his voice completely honest. Silverstone turned back to face him. "You've just admitted everything to me. I hardly think you'll be able to just waltz out of here."

"And what makes you think I can't? My word will always be better than yours. Even if you try to take me down yourself, you only have one bullet left in that gun, so even if you do shoot me – not to mention the fact that you might not kill me with it – I still have a fully-loaded revolver to use against you." He pulled out his weapon as he spoke and held aloft, pointing it at Holmes' chest. "So again, what makes you think I won't get away with this?"

"I have two arguments that I'm sure will change your mind." Holmes said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth

Silverstone raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Enlighten me."

"Number one, my brother Mycroft knows we're here. As I'm sure you're aware, Mycroft holds considerable power over the British Government, so were you to shoot us down, I'm sure you'd be feeling his full wrath. You would not be alive for very long."

Silverstone scoffed, "That's hardly going to persuade me, Holmes and you know it. I also have friends in high places, and I'm sure I can outnumber your brother. Neither you or the pathetic minorities your brother has under control in the Government can stop me now. So humour me, what's your second point?"

Holmes smile broadened, "My final point, and the most convincing argument I can make," the detective said, "is the revolver that Watson is currently pointing at your head."

Silverstone paled considerably at the sound of a gun being cocked behind him.

**TBC**

**A/N: So there you are, my lovelies. Updates are becoming pretty regular, and the next chapter will be up soon. Please review, you know how much I love to read them and they always make my day :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.**

**I'm afraid the next chapter will be the last of this story. I know I said in the beginning that this fanfic was going to be longer than **_**ACM**_**, but I had a much bigger, and frankly a more confusing, plot planned then.**

**Also, heard on the grapevine that the 3****rd**** Sherlock Holmes movie will involve Jack the Ripper! Only a rumour, though I have to confess I squealed when I read it :)**

_Silverstone paled considerably at the sound of a gun being cocked behind him._

"This is what we're going to do." John Watson growled from behind the lord. "You and I are going to head downstairs, where Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard is waiting, and he will take you and your friends to the Tower of London. How they decide to punish you, I don't know. You'll have to wait and see. Now move."

Silverstone gulped and nodded quickly. Watson moved his revolver down and prodded him in the back. The man flinched and headed towards the door. Watson cast one last look back at Holmes, silently asking if the detective was alright. Holmes nodded once and Watson continued down.

Ten minutes later the doctor returned, supporting a half-conscious Clarky. Without saying anything, Watson led the constable over to a blanket that had been thrown hap-hazardly on the floor, and gently sat him down. He quickly left the room, presumably to get medical supplies from the bathroom, and Holmes glanced at Clarky. The small figure looked the worse for wear, the blood on his face having dried, though the gashes were still open. Bruises were forming along his cheekbones, and his lip had split. Still, he looked up at Holmes and managed a wavering smile. Holmes smiled back warmly (probably the first time he had done that to the constable) and turned to face the door as Watson returned with a washbowl, stitches and bandages.

The doctor headed to Clarky and promptly began dressing his wounds. Soon, the deep wounds were stitched, and the others cleaned. Watson then helped Clarky to lie back and told him to get some rest. The constable willingly complied.

Next, Watson turned to Holmes. "Can you stand?" he asked softly.

"Not well." he answered with a grim smile.

Watson nodded, as if expecting this answer, and, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling Holmes' arm around his shoulders, gently guided Holmes to one of the other blankets strewn on the floor.

"Lie down." Watson commanded as he retrieved the washbowl, stitches and bandages. He removed the bloodied and ripped cloth and started to clean the wound, ensuring infection could not occur.

"Where's Silverstone?" Holmes asked, one arm thrown over his eyes in an attempt to calm his headache.

"I wasn't lying when I said Lestrade was outside waiting for us."

"How did he know where we were?"

"He told me Mycroft had sent him."

Holmes made a _humph_ noise before talking. "I should think so. This was his fault, after all."

"I doubt your brother deliberately sent us into danger. Hold still, Holmes." he said as the detective flinched from the cold steel of the needle.

"Did Lestrade get the ring?" Holmes asked quietly.

"I would imagine so. I certainly didn't take it. What?" he looked up quickly as Holmes emitted a sigh, thinking he had gone too deep with the stitches.

"It's nothing. No doubt Lestrade will hand over the ring to Mycroft once he's finished with it, and I'd have much preferred it if the British Government did not get their hands on it."

"Why?"

"Watson, you know full well that my line of work requires secrecy, and the scandal that will result from this whole affair will not bode well for my reputation. I'm sure that even as we speak, my brother is hounding up his troops and will be preparing to raid the illusive vault." Holmes let out another heavy sigh.

"You have no idea how egotistical you are." Watson said, chuckling as he applied the clean bandages. "But I suppose you're right. A scandal would certainly not help our business. It's certainly a good job that Mycroft doesn't know where the vault is, then, isn't it?."

Holmes raised his head sharply. "What are you talking about?"

After ensuring the bandages were secure, Watson sat back on his haunches and delved into his left pocket. A second later he pulled out a small, red velvet box and gave it to Holmes. When the detective opened the box, he was somewhat surprised to see a ruby engagement ring. He looked across at Watson, who was smiling smugly. "So what did Silverstone have?" he asked incredulously.

"A fake. I swapped the rings, though it was Clarky's idea. He gave the fake to me."

It was as if the fog had lifted over Holmes' eyes. "That was the plan he was muttering about, then. But," Holmes lowered his voice so he wouldn't wake the constable, "Where did Clarky get an engagement ring?" Watson shrugged.

"T'was my wife's." a quiet voice sounded from across the room. Holmes turned his head and Watson swivelled to see Clarky still lying wrapped in his blanket, staring at the ceiling. "I told her our situation, and she was more than willing to help."

"Where did you get the idea from?"

"Not sure. I guess I was thinking of a way to somehow destroy the message on the ring, and swapping it with another seemed the simplest choice."

Neither Holmes nor Watson could think of anything to say. Even if they wanted to, Clarky had already bid them goodnight and turned his back.

"Do you think it will still be safe to stay here?" Watson asked Holmes quietly.

"I don't see why not. There's no one else – as far as I know – baying for our blood. We're perfectly safe."

Watson nodded. "Even so, we'll move in the morning. You need to rest you're leg, though. Sleep. Now."

Holmes smiled. "You always have a way with words, Watson. So charming." he said, before a blanket hit him in square in the face. "You also have good aim, which I had forgotten about." Holmes muttered, eliciting a tired chuckle from across the room as the doctor moved the temporary medical supplies to the corner.

"Are you planning on treating your arm any time soon?" Holmes asked from beneath the blanket, remembering the gash the bullet had left. He noticed Watson hesitate, bent over the washbowl, and he rolled his eyes.

"Do I have to play doctor as well?" the detective asked sarcastically. Watson glowered at him.

"I'll do it later." he huffed.

"Why not do it now?" Holmes chided.

Watson stood fully upright and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because I am sore all over, I have a pounding headache, and I am exhausted. I will do it when I am more focused." he continued to tidy, before scooping up his blanket and sitting beneath the window.

"If you're so tired, why are you planning on keeping vigil?" Holmes asked critically.

"Because someone's got to do it," came the short answer, "and you two need rest."

Holmes was about to reply that he was perfectly capable of keeping watch, but Watson cut him off.

"Your body needs to repair itself, Holmes, whether you like it or not. If you really insist, I will wake you in a few hours. Maybe." he added quietly, so that the detective could not hear.

Huffing, Holmes rolled on his side and closed his eyes, knowing an argument was futile when it concerned his health. He was feeling a little strained, to be fair, and his leg was throbbing constantly. Maybe a bit of sleep wouldn't be too bad.

His last thought was whether Watson was staying awake for another reason, before his mind shut down and he descended into blissfulness.

* * *

When Mycroft Holmes plodded up the stairs of the ghastly warehouse in search of his brother and the doctor four hours later (the paperwork had been unending), he had to admit he was a little surprised to see the former fast asleep, blanket held tightly in an attempt to ward of the cold. He was not at all surprised, though, to see the good doctor slouched against the wall, blanket half-covering him, moments from falling asleep. Indeed, for the past hour his eyelids had continued to droop, but every time he would shake them off, blinking furiously and glancing around the room at the two sleeping figures.

Mycroft walked slowly over to John Watson, careful not to surprise him in his semi-conscious state. A small pang of sympathy broke through his hardened shell, but he quickly cast his emotions aside, his critical eyes observing everything of the exhausted form. The dark circles under his eyes suggesting multiple sleepless nights, the blood seeping through his left sleeve showing no concern towards himself when others were in need of help, the cuts and scrapes decorating his face and arms revealing the fight he had put up against his assailants. When he moved his gaze over to his sleeping brother, he noticed the stitched head wound, cleaned cuts and clean bandages. The same went for the constable: wounds thoroughly cleaned and treated, all pain gone from his features. Doctor Watson had certainly done a good job fixing his friends, though the same couldn't be said for himself. Having foreseen this and walking briskly back towards the door, Mycroft motioned downstairs to someone before heading back over to Watson. Placing a hand gently on the doctor's shoulder, Mycroft quietly called his name. At the touch, Watson instantly jerked awake and instinctively grabbed Mycroft's arm in a vice-like grasp. Mycroft waited patiently – unaffected by the death grip on his arm – for Watson to come back to reality. Soon enough, the green eyes focused on Mycroft's ice-grey ones and Watson abruptly let go after recognising him, mumbling an apology whilst trying to stifle a yawn. Almost instantaneously, Watson's gaze slid over to Holmes, checking to see if his friend was in trouble. After giving himself and his surroundings the all-clear, he looked back at Mycroft expectantly.

Mycroft smiled, "It's alright, doctor. I'm merely here to tell you to sit still."

Watson frowned, "Why?" he muttered. At that moment, the door opened and a small man hastily walked in. He was dressed rather formally for a midnight visit, and he held his nose in the air, as if everyone else (besides Mycroft, of course) was beneath him. Mycroft turned and summoned him over, before facing Watson again.

"This is Dr. Knight." he explained, "He's here to tend to your wounds."

Watson sat upright, the frown deepening. "I'm perfectly–"

"And yet the blood on your sleeve suggests otherwise." Mycroft interrupted. "Just let the doctor do his job."

"No, Mycroft, I said I'm fine. Thank you, but I don't need any of your doctors to help me."

Dr. Knight gave him a condescending look, "Sir, I would highly recommend you let me treat you. You are obviously delirious from the blood loss, and you need my assistance immediately. I am merely trying to help, for your own sake." he stated in a monotonous tone.

Watson raised his eyebrows, "Oh are you? Well, _doctor_, even in my delirious state I can't help but notice your voice getting louder, and _I _would highly recommend you leave before you wake my other patients up." he snapped.

In all fairness, Mycroft did not know this Dr. Knight perhaps as much as he should have done before thrusting him upon Watson. Suddenly noticing his brother stir out of the corner of his eye, he silently prayed Knight would relent, for his sake.

"Doctor Watson," Knight said in a timid voice, "you are clearly exhausted, and maybe once I have treated your arm, I can administer a small sedative to help you sleep. You are suffering from night terrors from your experiences in India, are you not?"

Watson's head snapped up. "Who told you that?" Immediately, he faced Mycroft. The elder Holmes held up a hand before he could speak. "He did not get your file from me." he assured.

"It does not matter how I came upon your files. What matters is your health, and it will continue to deteriorate if you keep neglecting it like this!"

Watson scoffed, "You think I'm doing this deliberately? You think I am forcing myself to stay awake for twenty-four hours in order to prevent myself from waking up a few hours later _on purpose_? Who do you think you are? And how exactly did you come by my file?"

"Actually," Knight said, with a somewhat arrogant look, "I had a friend from the Government send your file to me once I learned I was to treat you. I like to know my patient before I examine them."

"I am not your _patient_." Watson spat, "And just exactly how many other _confidential _patient files have you had your 'friend' give you?"

Knight did not seem to pick up on the emphasis on the word 'confidential'. "I've had it done for many other patients. It certainly contributes to the final diagnosis."

"Mmm." Watson said, all traces of tiredness disappearing from his eyes. Mycroft remained silent, shocked at the confession from this _highly respected doctor_, as the man who had recommended him had said. "And pray tell, are your patients aware of this?"

Knight seemed to consider his answer, "I don't believe so. Does it really matter?" he asked earnestly.

"Oh, I think it would matter. I think it would matter considerably if those patients knew how you and your friend are handling their private information." a voice from behind Knight said, "And I think the law shares that opinion, don't you agree, constable?"

"Oho yes, they would very much agree." Knight turned to see Sherlock Holmes and Constable Clarke both sat up in their 'beds' and gazing levelly at the doctor.

Knight swallowed, Mycroft sighed, Watson smiled, and both Clarky and Holmes said, "Get out," to the former. Without a word, the small man got up and left.

"Well, Mycroft," Holmes said as he stood up. "I think it's safe to say that didn't quite go as you expected, hmm?"

"For once, dear brother, I am in agreement with you." Mycroft replied as he too stood. "I am also here to tell you, though, that Lord Silverstone is in the Tower of London, his cohorts spending their time waiting for their trial in Scotland Yard's cells, and also that the two of you may safely return home. Constable Clarke, Inspector Lestrade has asked me to inform you that he would like to speak with you first thing tomorrow morning. Other than that, your wife is at home and awaiting your return. Goodnight, gentlemen." And with that, Mycroft Holmes strode out of the door.

Holmes moved over to Watson and offered a hand to help him up. Silently, the three of them left the warehouse and called for two cabs. Clarky took the first one, saying his goodnights as he left, and Holmes and Watson climbed into the second.

The pair sat in companionable silence for most of the journey. Holmes gazed out of the window at the first signs of dawn, whilst Watson fiddled with his nails.

"Holmes, I–"

"Watson, if–"

Both stopped as soon as they heard the other speak, and waited for their friend to continue. After nothing came, the two abruptly burst into laughter.

"Holmes, what were you going to say?" Watson asked after he'd recovered.

"It doesn't matter. You?"

"Likewise."

The pair once again returned to silence, only once being interrupted by Holmes' yawning. Watson looked across at him.

"You look terrible." he offered.

"Thanks. You should see yourself. You look positively ghastly." came the reply.

Watson chuckled. "Lie down, old boy, you need to sleep. God knows when the last time you slept was."

"The same can be said for you, dear Watson." Holmes said, his face becoming serious.

Watson shrugged. "I'll sleep when we get home." he excused. "You need to sleep now though. You're dead on your feet, and I'm sure your leg is causing you some discomfort. Lie down."

Holmes sighed, before giving in and laying sideways, his head resting on Watson's lap. The doctor opened his mouth to object; this wasn't exactly what he'd meant, but decided against it. _Let the man sleep_, he thought to himself. He absent-mindedly began threading his fingers through Holmes' coarse hair (most probably trying to tease out the knots in his sub-conscious) whilst debating what to do with the small, red velvet box that resided in his pocket. He smiled to himself as he remembered he still had a promise to keep.

**A/N: There we go, my lovelies! Please please please review; you all know how much I love them. I know this chapter wasn't too exhilarating, but we are nearing the end, and like I said earlier, the next chapter will be the last :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.**

**Last chapter, folks!**

**EPILOGUE**

_Watson smiled to himself as he remembered he still had a promise to keep._

"Remind me again why you've dragged me along?"

"Because the fresh air will do you good."

"If it was fresh air I required, I would have visited somewhere such as Devon or Cornwall... not Ireland."

"Holmes, stop whining. You are coming to see Catherine Collins whether you like it or not."

"Why do you keep calling her Catherine _Collins_? She wasn't married to him."

John Watson faltered during their banter match. They were both sat in an old cab which was rattling down an old country lane in Dublin. Sherlock Holmes was slouched in the corner, constantly huffing about the whole situation. Watson was sat opposite him, still relishing the victory of getting Holmes to another country without having to sedate him. He could still remember the look on Holmes' face when he'd told him where they were going...

* * *

Watson hurriedly closed the door of 221b Baker Street behind him as the icy winter air nipped at him and caused his leg to throb. He limped up the stairs and pushed open the living room door. Holmes was stood with his back to him, favouring his left leg whilst facing the window and playing a melancholy tune on his Stradivarius. Papers were scattered around the room, and on the coffee table suspicious-looking fumes were circling a small experiment. Watson ignored the probably toxic gas and set about clearing the mess from his armchair and drawing it closer to the warm fire. Sighing, he sunk into the chair and stretched out his legs. He closed his eyes and let the warmth flood through his shivering form. His relief was short-lived, however, when he opened his eyes and suddenly found Holmes bent over him and watching him closely. Watson raised his eyebrows.

"Why haven't you told me where we're going?" the detective asked.

"How did you–"

"I can see the two boat tickets sticking out of your pocket." he said sharply.

Watson smiled, "That's it? No grandiose deduction about the certain type of mud on my shoes that can only be found at the docks... or the distinctive smell of some baker's shop that I must have travelled past?"

"There is snow on the ground, causing the soil to harden and thus preventing mud from sticking to your shoes, and the baker's shop which you refer to closed down a month ago." Holmes said dryly, "So again, why haven't you told me where we're going?"

"I was about to, actually. But seeing as you're in such a good mood, why don't you work it out for yourself?" Watson chided.

The detective, paused, considering his options. "No," he said as he moved to pick up his violin and settle in his own armchair. He began to pick at the strings as he spoke. "I'm not going."

"Yes you are," Watson said firmly, "The holiday will give you a chance to fully recover, and I'm sure Scotland Yard can survive without you for a few days."

"I doubt it." Holmes muttered, "Even so, I refuse to go until you tell me where our destination is."

Watson sighed and put his head in his hands, wincing as the stitches on his arm stretched. It had been two days since the pair of them had returned from the warehouse, and both of them were still sore and moving stiffly from the various scratches and bruises on them. Holmes was still adamant that he could move perfectly well despite the bullet wound on his leg. Apart from the occasional wince, the only signs Holmes showed was a small limp, which he repressed if he could. A holiday would _definitely _slow Holmes down and help him to relax, Watson mused. He knew, though, that Holmes wouldn't agree with their destination. Still, he was going to find out sooner or later. "Ireland." he muttered, preparing for the oncoming tirade. Looking up from his hands, he saw Holmes gazing levelly at him, processing facts and recent events that could have contributed to the sudden decision to take a holiday in Ireland. Suddenly his eyes widened as he realised why Watson wanted to go.

"No. I'm not going with you."

"Yes you are." Watson said, standing up. "You are coming with me so I can give the ring back to Patrick Collins' fiancée. She already knows we're coming, and we'll be leaving this evening."

"But why do I have to come?" Holmes whined. _Such a child_.

"Because it was you who solved the case and stopped Silverstone. He was, effectively, Collins' killer, and I'm sure Miss Catherine will appreciate your help and want to thank you for your determination in finishing the business, despite the side-effects." Watson said, gesturing to Holmes' leg.

Holmes sighed, "I suppose I have no choice in the matter," Watson nodded. "Very well, I shall begin packing. Do you happen to know where my violin case is?"

"No." Watson said sternly, "You are not taking that. I will not have you waking everyone at three o'clock in the morning. No, don't give me that face. It may work for Mrs. Hudson, but if you think I'm going to cave then you've got another thing coming." Watson left the room, leaving Holmes staring after him with a large pout on his face.

* * *

Back in the cab, Watson contemplated Holmes' previous question. Why _had _he used Patrick's surname? He glanced up at Holmes, who was watching him through half-lidded eyes, ensuring Watson knew he was bored and would rather be anywhere else but here.

"I just assumed," Watson said slowly, "that Catherine would want to keep the name. She had just lost someone she loved dearly, and I'm sure she'll want to hold onto his name, as a keep-sake, if you will."

Holmes huffed. "But you're guessing. How do you _know _she'll keep the name?"

"I don't, but if I was in that position, I'd–"

"I know what you'd do, Watson, but you are not in that position, so don't make guesses based on your _emotions_."

"I was in that position, Holmes." Watson said, looking out of the window as he spoke. "You have no idea what that poor girl is going through. She'll be feeling all alone, and nothing anyone else can say or do will ease her pain. If she remains that way, she'll continue to isolate herself from the world and sink into a deep depression. I've been through that, Holmes. I've experienced that pain, with no one to comfort me, so don't you _dare_ tell me what I should and shouldn't do, _especially _when it comes to emotions. If I recall, that's one of the areas in which you dwindle."

Holmes remained silent through his friend's outburst. Of course, he should have known this visit would have a personal effect on the doctor. He never had asked what had happened to Watson during his three year absence, instead focusing on their next moves after his return. The only way he'd learned of Miss Morstan's (he refused to call her 'Mrs. Watson') death was through Mycroft, who had warned him a few weeks after returning to Baker Street.

The remainder of the cab ride was spent in silence, the two of them gazing out of their window as they bounced in their seats. Soon, the hansom drew up alongside a small house, and Holmes and Watson departed, Watson paying for the fare whilst Holmes strode up to the house. The street they were in was currently empty, with only the occasional stranger passing by. The cab rattled away on the cobble-stone road as Watson joined Holmes at the front door.

"Behave." he muttered as he knocked loudly.

The door opened to reveal a young woman, wearing a simple blue dress with bright green eyes and smoky black hair that hung in loose curls around her shoulders. Watson smiled and stepped forward, introducing himself and Holmes.

"It's so lovely to meet you." The sweet Irish accent rolled of her tongue as Holmes stepped forward to kiss her hand softly. "Please, come inside. I'm sure you've had a long journey." Holmes stepped aside to let Watson follow Miss Catherine through the cream carpeted hallway and up the stairs, until they reached as small living space with a red-plush sofa against the far wall and a mahogany writing desk in front of the window. Paintings were hung around the room, and bookshelves lined the wall on the right.

Miss Catherine gestured for the two men to sit, whilst she went down to the kitchen and made tea. A few minutes later she returned, and after handing over two of the three cups she sat down on a small stool situated near the door.

"I'm a big admirer of yours, Mr. Holmes. I've read all of Doctor Watson's work and I have to say that sometimes I can hardly believe the deductions you make."

"I can assure you, Miss...?"

"Oh, please, just call me Miss Collins." Catherine assured. Holmes ignored the small smile on Watson's face.

"As I was saying, Miss Collins, I can assure you my deductions are completely accurate. For example, your–" he was cut off by Watson discreetly kicking his ankle as a warning.

Miss Collins looked at him expectantly. "My...?"

"Your... paintings... reveal that you are a wealthy lady, as your former fiancé, Patrick Collins, was still a relatively new doctor, and would not have been able to afford these magnificent works of art." he said, using the charisma he knew would flatter Miss Collins.

Miss Collins looked around the room at each picture. "You're right, Mr Holmes. Ever since I was a young gal I loved viewing paintings by Auguste Renoir. Patrick seemed to like them too, I might add."

Watson coughed nervously. "Miss Collins, I...er... I have Patrick's engagement ring he was going to give to you," he said, taking out the small, red velvet box from his pocket, "I presume you already knew he was going to propose?"

Miss Collins chuckled, "Yes, I did. He was never very good at keeping secrets, and every time I mentioned the idea of getting married he would suddenly become very flustered and mumble an excuse to leave the room. At first I thought he was afraid of the prospect of us being wed, but one of my friends who owns the local jewellers accidently let slip that Patrick had been in his shop."

"You would have said yes?" Watson asked, handing her the box. She took it and slowly opened it, gasping as she saw the ruby ring in the centre of the lavish cushion. Her eyes glistened as she put it on her finger and spoke.

"Yes, of course I would." she whispered, "Patrick was the sweetest man I ever knew, and he treated me with such care. He always strived to make me happy, and I've never known a man who could be so loving and devoted... and... I miss him... somuch." Tears began to stream down her face, and Watson knelt in front of her to take the tea from her grasp before it spilt. He gently shushed her and stood her up, enveloping her in a soft embrace in front of the door. She clutched at his jacket, desperately trying to prevent herself from crying into his shoulder whilst he continued to mutter soothingly in her ear. Holmes cleared his throat quietly, unsure of what to do, and Watson met his eyes.

"Find the maid_._" Watson mouthed to him.

Holmes frowned at him, not understanding.

"Find the maid!" he repeated.

"What?" Holmes mouthed back.

"Find. The. Maid!" he emphasised his words and Holmes nodded, finally receiving the message as he left the room whilst Watson rubbed the young woman's back. He heard Holmes trudge downstairs to find Miss Collins' maid, but focused his attention back to Miss Collins when he heard her sniff.

"I'm sorry, Doctor... I didn't mean to break down like that." Tears were still running down her face, and Watson silently wiped them away, allowing her to continue in her own time.

"It was just... all so sudden. One day, I'm receiving letters from him about his experiences in London... and the next, I have an official on my doorstep telling me he's d-d-dead." she began to sob again, and Watson pulled her back into a hug.

"It's alright," he murmured. "You'll get through this, I promise... It will be tough, but eventually you'll find that spark you think you've lost."

Miss Collins hiccupped, "You sound as if you're speaking from experience." she mumbled into his shoulder.

"I am," he said softly. "I lost my wife a few months ago to consumption. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to go through."

"I – I'm so sorry." she said, looking up into his blue eyes.

"Don't be," he said gently, looking down at her and brushing aside a strand of her dark hair. "I survived, and you're going to do the same." A firm tone in his voice caused her to form a small smile.

"Thank you, Doctor. You've no idea how nice it is to talk to someone who understands. Can I... ask you something?"

"Of course." he answered softly.

"You mentioned re-discovering a... spark... I've lost. When did you find yours?"

Watson gazed at her, before looking away. "For a time, Holmes led me to believe he was dead – for my own good. In his line of work, danger is always around the corner, and the only way he could defeat one particular enemy was to throw the two of them off a balcony and down a waterfall, supposedly to his doom. He was gone for three years, ensuring all of his enemy's followers had been eliminated. When he returned, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I have to confess I punched the man," this elicited a giggle from Miss Collins, "but he helped me to move on with Mary's death. His fall was _by far_ the worst thing that has happened to me, but his return was most definitely the best thing that I could have asked for, and there isn't a day that goes by where I wish Mary could be here instead of him... despite how infuriating he can be." he smiled to himself, before looking down at Miss Collins, "Catherine, I'm certain you're going to find someone who can help you like Holmes did to me, too."

Mrs Collins smiled at him, "Mr Holmes is lucky to have you." she said quietly.

"I would say it was the other way around." he corrected, before the door opened and Holmes led a small, plump woman, who must have been about forty, into the room. Immediately, she bustled over to her mistress, promptly casting Watson out of the way, as she fussed over the young woman.

"We'll be leaving now, I think." Holmes said. Miss Collins looked up at them sharply, drawing away from her maid.

"Won't you stay for the night? It will get dark outside soon, and I would hate for something to happen on your journey back."

Holmes hesitated before replying, but one look at Watson revealed the doctor thought this was a good idea. "Of course," he answered, "How could we refuse?"

Miss Collins beamed at them. "I have a spare room down the hall which the two of you can use. I'm sure you'll be perfectly comfortable there."

Holmes put on his best smile, "That would be most appreciated, thank you." he said.

"Oh, not at all. Maria, come help me prepare the beds for these two gentlemen." The maid nodded and followed her mistress down the hall, leaving Holmes and Watson to themselves.

"Watson," Holmes turned to his companion as soon as the door had shut, "You know how much I dislike being in the company of an... emotional party."

Watson sighed, "I know, Holmes, and I'm sorry, but it's clear Miss Collins wants someone to talk to, and she needs us."

"You." Holmes corrected, "She needs you. You are the only one of us who can relate to her, and you are much more capable of dealing with the fairer sex than I, so there is no reason whatsoever for me to still be here."

Watson gazed at him, a slight frown on his face. "Fine," the doctor said after a few moments, "You're right. I suppose it's bad enough I've taken you along with me, much to your displeasure – as you've made clear, so it's only fair you go home. I've booked rooms at the Shelbourne Hotel under my name, so do what you will." he handed Holmes the hotel's business card with its address, before leaving the room and turning down the hallway, presumably to go to his temporary room. Holmes knew the doctor was trying to hide his disappointment, but he _really _didn't want to be here. Throwing the card on the table after memorising the address, he limped downstairs, shrugging on his coat as he did so. Just as he was about to reach for the handle, he heard a shout from behind him. Turning, he saw Miss Collins hurrying down the stairs and towards him.

"You're leaving?" she asked, crestfallen.

"I'm afraid so. I've urgent business to attend to in London, and it really cannot wait. I'll be catching the last boat tonight."

"Oh, alright." she accepted, though still obviously deflated, "Is Doctor Watson going with you?" she added as an after-thought.

"No, he is still going to stay the night, as far as I'm aware."

"But does he know you're going?" she asked, a frown forming on her features.

"Yes, and he understands why I must leave. What? Why?" he asked, after seeing Miss Collins frown even more.

"It's only... I didn't think you were going to leave him behind."

"I'm not leaving him behind, I'm just..." Holmes paused, unsure of where he was going with this. "The... er... the cold affects his leg... and I think it would be best if he stays... rather than brave the weather and risk injuring himself more."

"Mmm-hmm? Well, I suppose it's none of my business, though there is always a free bed in the spare room if you change your mind, and I'm sure Doctor Watson wouldn't disagree at all." Once finished, she said goodnight and returned upstairs, turning right, most probably to her bedroom and leaving Holmes alone in the hallway. He could hear the slightly heavier steps of Watson on the other side of the house, and it sounded as though the doctor was pacing. His hand still on the door knob, Holmes strained to hear for any more noises, but it soon became apparent that Watson had lay down on his bed. He stood frozen there for twenty more minutes before sighing to himself and plodding noiselessly upstairs. He poked his head around the door of the spare room, and the light from the lamps on the landing cast a beam on the nearest bed, revealing the sleeping form of Watson. His eyes were closed, though faintly moving underneath his eyelids, and Holmes guessed he had only just entered REM sleep. He seemed peaceful enough, and finally making his decision, the detective reversed from the door and silently left the house. He soon called a cab and was bustling towards the hotel Watson had booked rooms for them at.

* * *

Holmes was half-way through packing his belongings on the hotel bed when there was a sudden rapping on the door. Muttering, he strode across the room and opened it to reveal an angry-looking Catherine Collins. Before he could say anything to her, she had stepped forward and sharply slapped him across the face, causing him to stumble backwards as she advanced into his room.

"You bastard." she growled as he stood to face her, clutching a hand to his cheek.

"Though I am used to being addressed as thus, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask for a reason."

"You think you're being clever? You find this funny?" she continued to stalk towards him, and he eventually stopped her by placing his hands on either of her arms.

"Miss Collins, if I knew what it was I was supposed to find amusing, then rest assured I would answer your question."

"Do you know what Doctor Watson said to me last night, when you went to fetch Maria?" Holmes shook his head, "He told me about his wife's death, and he then added – and I quote – 'His fall was by far the worst thing that had happened to me, but his return was most definitely the best thing that I could have asked for, and there isn't a day that goes by where I wish Mary could be here instead of him.' He said he was lucky to have you as a friend, but what kind of friend leaves him to suffer?"

Holmes frowned, not certain what Miss Collins was talking about, until the realisation hit him like a train. "He woke you up?"

"Yes, he woke me up, though I hardly blame him. It's a good thing Maria had gone home, mind you, she's a lovely woman but she could talk for Ireland. Any person can see the exhaustion on his face and the suffering he goes through, and if you've got any sense, Mr Holmes, I suggest you march out of here and apologise to him right now."

Holmes stared at the young woman, speechless. She continued to stand there, arms folded, whilst he attempted to glare at her and manipulate her into leaving. She held her ground, however, and soon Holmes relented.

"Where is he?" he asked quietly.

Miss Collins blushed and coughed nervously, "Mr Holmes," she began slowly, "maybe if you had told me the truth yesterday, he'd be here, and not..." she trailed off.

"Catherine, where is he?"

"I'm only here because I found this hotel's card in the living room..."

"Miss Collins–"

"He's left, Mr Holmes. I told him what you told me last night, and he thinks you've left for England. He's probably already on his boat."

Holmes swore and quickly threw his remaining belongings into his bag before hastily shooing Miss Collins out of the hotel room and sprinting down the hallway, shouting a goodbye as he went.

He managed to call a cab within seconds of rushing out the doors and with the promise of a double fare to the driver if he got there in ten minutes, he prayed he would reach the docks in time. He could only imagine the betrayal Watson could be feeling, apparently having his best friend leave him in an unknown country without telling him, and he pounded the leather seat in frustration.

After far too long, the cab stopped, and Holmes leapt out, throwing change to the driver as he ran to the edge of the docks. He ran alongside the water, scouring each and every boat and ignoring the pain in his leg as he hoped to find the unmistakable figure of Watson. He continued to run up and down for another ten minutes, before giving up and cursing loudly. The ship was gone, probably halfway across the Irish Sea by now.

Thank God he had contacts in Ireland. Soon he was sat on a small sailboat that was being captained by one of his client he'd met in his early years as a consulting detective. After Holmes had explained the situation, his client, who had met Watson a few years back, had quickly gathered more crew members and had abruptly set sail across the sea.

It was an excruciatingly long journey, and Holmes had continued to pace for the full eight hours, constantly dreading what Watson would say when they met again. Would he leave? No, he was far too loyal to do that, but then again, he had left him for Miss Morstan without hesitation. _Yes, but you heard what Miss Collins said_, the voice in his head reminded, _Watson would much prefer you were here than Mary_. This sort of argument continued in his head for the rest of the trip.

Finally, they docked in Southampton, and after a brief thank-you, Holmes had secured a cab and was hurtling towards Baker Street. Maybe Watson hadn't gotten there yet. Perhaps they had overtaken the ship and they were both in separate cabs, heading for the same destination. It was a slim chance, but he held onto the thought.

Twenty minutes later Holmes leapt out of the cab and jumped up the steps leading to 221b. Pushing open the door, he quietly made his way up the stairs and walked into the living room, his heart sinking as he saw Watson sat in his armchair, looking exhausted and reading a newspaper, not bothering to look up when Holmes entered.

"Watson, I–"

"Save it, Holmes. I don't want to hear your excuses." he said quietly, still pretending to read the paper.

"Well, too bad, you're going to hear them whether you like it or not." At this, Watson put his paper down and looked up expectantly.

"It was... all a big misunderstanding," Holmes started, "I did go to the hotel you had booked for us. I didn't come here. I only told that to Miss Collins because I knew she wouldn't allow me to leave if I'd said I was just going to some hotel. She said to me that she'd found the business card that you'd given to me, and only realised the mistake once you'd left." Holmes made his way towards Watson. "I am _truly _sorry for having you believe I'd left you. You must know that I would never do that, no matter what the circumstances are."

Watson sighed. "It's alright, Holmes."

"No, it's not alright. I shouldn't have left in the first place. I knew you still had trouble sleeping," at this, Watson looked up sharply, and Holmes answered his unspoken question, "Yes, Miss Collins did hear you, but know that she doesn't blame you at all. My behaviour was thoughtless and selfish, and... I understand if you wish to leave."

Watson raised his eyebrows. "Holmes, if you think this is going to make me leave, then you are very much mistaken. What's happened wasn't your fault, though I'll have to congratulate Miss Collins on her powers of persuasion."He gestured to Holmes' cheek, where a large red mark was spreading across it. "How hard did she hit you?" Watson asked, looking back down at his paper.

"Very hard. I had half a mind to hit her back."

Watson chuckled. "Well then I doubt you would have left that room alive."

Holmes snorted. "Any letters?"

Watson grinned at his paper. "Yes, there is one letter I think you might like to read. It's on your chair."

Holmes turned and picked up said letter, settling down as he read. Once he'd finished, he couldn't help but let a smile creep across his features:

_Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson,_

_ I am writing to inform you of the events that have occurred since the two of you have left for Ireland. Much has happened, and I'm sure, Mr Holmes, that you would not wish to be left out._

_ Firstly, you will be pleased to hear that Lord Silverstone is to be hanged next Friday. After appealing his case to prove his innocence, which I must admit sounded completely crazy, your brother Mycroft stepped in and completely abolished his case. I'm sure your presences would have convinced the jury to make a decision quicker, but I've a feeling my appearance helped convince them._

_ Secondly, I must warn the two of you that Mycroft has found out the ring Doctor Watson gave to Silverstone was a fake, and be aware that he is not too happy. Indeed, he accused Inspector Lestrade of tampering with evidence, and I had to quickly explain the conditions that had led to the rings being swapped. Know that Mycroft will be wanting a word with you, Doctor, for failing to hand over the genuine ring._

_ Finally, if either of you wish to talk some details over the case with me at Scotland Yard, I ask you to refrain from asking for Constable Clarke, as I now have a new title._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Sergeant Clarke_

**A/N: Thank you all so much for reading my fanfic, and a special thanks to all those who have favourite, alerted and reviewed! I really hope you enjoyed it, and reviews now would be the icing on the cake :)**


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